Ben Jonson - Volpone; Or, The Fox (Act 2 Scene 2.3) lyrics

A ROOM IN CORVINO'S HOUSE. ENTER CORVINO, WITH HIS SWORD IN HIS HAND, DRAGGING IN CELIA. CORV d**h of mine honour, with the city's fool! A juggling, tooth-drawing, prating mountebank! And at a public window! where, whilst he, With his strain'd action, and his dole of faces, To his drug-lecture draws your itching ears, A crew of old, unmarried, noted letchers, Stood leering up like satyrs; and you smile Most graciously, and fan your favours forth, To give your hot spectators satisfaction! What; was your mountebank their call? their whistle? Or were you enamour'd on his copper rings, His saffron j**el, with the toad-stone in't, Or his embroider'd suit, with the cope-stitch, Made of a herse-cloth? or his old tilt-feather? Or his starch'd beard? Well; you shall have him, yes! He shall come home, and minister unto you The fricace for the mother. Or, let me see, I think you'd rather mount; would you not mount? Why, if you'll mount, you may; yes truly, you may: And so you may be seen, down to the foot. Get you a cittern, lady Vanity, And be a dealer with the virtuous man; Make one: I'll but protest myself a cuckold, And save your dowry. I'm a Dutchman, I! For, if you thought me an Italian, You would be damn'd, ere you did this, you who*e! Thou'dst tremble, to imagine, that the murder Of father, mother, brother, all thy race, Should follow, as the subject of my justice. CEL Good sir, have pacience. CORV What couldst thou propose Less to thyself, than in this heat of wrath And stung with my dishonour, I should strike This steel into thee, with as many stabs, As thou wert gaz'd upon with goatish eyes? CEL Alas, sir, be appeas'd! I could not think My being at the window should more now Move your impatience, than at other times. CORV No! not to seek and entertain a parley With a known knave, before a multitude! You were an actor with your handkerchief; Which he most sweetly kist in the receipt, And might, no doubt, return it with a letter, And point the place where you might meet: your sister's, Your mother's, or your aunt's might serve the turn. CEL Why, dear sir, when do I make these excuses, Or ever stir abroad, but to the church? And that so seldom— CORV Well, it shall be less; And thy restraint before was liberty, To what I now decree: and therefore mark me. First, I will have this bawdy light damm'd up; And till't be done, some two or three yards off, I'll chalk a line: o'er which if thou but chance To set thy desperate foot; more hell, more horror More wild remorseless rage shall seize on thee, Than on a conjurer, that had heedless left His circle's safety ere his devil was laid. Then here's a lock which I will hang upon thee; And, now I think on't, I will keep thee backwards; Thy lodging shall be backwards; thy walks backwards; Thy prospect, all be backwards; and no pleasure, That thou shalt know but backwards: nay, since you force My honest nature, know, it is your own, Being too open, makes me use you thus: Since you will not contain your subtle nostrils In a sweet room, but they must snuff the air Of rank and sweaty pa**engers. [KNOCKING WITHIN.] —One knocks. Away, and be not seen, pain of thy life; Nor look toward the window: if thou dost— Nay, stay, hear this—let me not prosper, who*e, But I will make thee an anatomy, Dissect thee mine own self, and read a lecture Upon thee to the city, and in public. Away! [EXIT CELIA.] [ENTER SERVANT.] Who's there? SERV 'Tis signior Mosca, sir. CORV Let him come in. [EXIT SERVANT.] His master's dead: There's yet Some good to help the bad.— [ENTER MOSCA.] My Mosca, welcome! I guess your news. MOS I fear you cannot, sir. CORV Is't not his d**h? MOS Rather the contrary. CORV Not his recovery? MOS Yes, sir, CORV I am curs'd, I am bewitch'd, my crosses meet to vex me. How? how? how? how? MOS Why, sir, with Scoto's oil; Corbaccio and Voltore brought of it, Whilst I was busy in an inner room— CORV d**h! that damn'd mountebank; but for the law Now, I could k** the rascal: it cannot be, His oil should have that virtue. Have not I Known him a common rogue, come fidling in To the osteria, with a tumbling who*e, And, when he has done all his forced tricks, been glad Of a poor spoonful of dead wine, with flies in't? It cannot be. All his ingredients Are a sheep's gall, a roasted b**h's marrow, Some few sod earwigs pounded caterpillars, A little capon's grease, and fasting spittle: I know them to a dram. MOS I know not, sir, But some on't, there, they pour'd into his ears, Some in his nostrils, and recover'd him; Applying but the fricace. CORV Pox o' that fricace. MOS And since, to seem the more officious And flatt'ring of his health, there, they have had, At extreme fees, the college of physicians Consulting on him, how they might restore him; Where one would have a cataplasm of spices, Another a flay'd ape clapp'd to his breast, A third would have it a dog, a fourth an oil, With wild cats' skins: at last, they all resolved That, to preserve him, was no other means, But some young woman must be straight sought out, Lusty, and full of juice, to sleep by him; And to this service, most unhappily, And most unwillingly, am I now employ'd, Which here I thought to pre-acquaint you with, For your advice, since it concerns you most; Because, I would not do that thing might cross Your ends, on whom I have my whole dependance, sir: Yet, if I do it not, they may delate My slackness to my patron, work me out Of his opinion; and there all your hopes, Ventures, or whatsoever, are all frustrate! I do but tell you, sir. Besides, they are all Now striving, who shall first present him; therefore— I could entreat you, briefly conclude somewhat; Prevent them if you can. CORV d**h to my hopes, This is my villainous fortune! Best to hire Some common courtezan. MOS Ay, I thought on that, sir; But they are all so subtle, full of art— And age again doting and flexible, So as—I cannot tell—we may, perchance, Light on a quean may cheat us all. CORV 'Tis true. MOS No, no: it must be one that has no tricks, sir, Some simple thing, a creature made unto it; Some wench you may command. Have you no kinswoman? Odso—Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, sir. One o' the doctors offer'd there his daughter. CORV How! MOS Yes, signior Lupo, the physician. CORV His daughter! MOS And a virgin, sir. Why? alas, He knows the state of's body, what it is; That nought can warm his blood sir, but a fever; Nor any incantation raise his spirit: A long forgetfulness hath seized that part. Besides sir, who shall know it? some one or two— CORV I prithee give me leave. [WALKS ASIDE.] If any man But I had had this luck—The thing in't self, I know, is nothing—Wherefore should not I As well command my blood and my affections, As this dull doctor? In the point of honour, The cases are all one of wife and daughter. MOS [ASIDE.]: I hear him coming. CORV She shall do't: 'tis done. Slight! if this doctor, who is not engaged, Unless 't be for his counsel, which is nothing, Offer his daughter, what should I, that am So deeply in? I will prevent him: Wretch! Covetous wretch!—Mosca, I have determined. MOS How, sir? CORV We'll make all sure. The party you wot of Shall be mine own wife, Mosca. MOS Sir, the thing, But that I would not seem to counsel you, I should have motion'd to you, at the first: And make your count, you have cut all their throats. Why! 'tis directly taking a possession! And in his next fit, we may let him go. 'Tis but to pull the pillow from his head, And he is throttled: it had been done before, But for your scrupulous doubts. CORV Ay, a plague on't, My conscience fools my wit! Well, I'll be brief, And so be thou, lest they should be before us: Go home, prepare him, tell him with what zeal And willingness I do it; swear it was On the first hearing, as thou mayst do, truly, Mine own free motion. MOS Sir, I warrant you, I'll so possess him with it, that the rest Of his starv'd clients shall be banish'd all; And only you received. But come not, sir, Until I send, for I have something else To ripen for your good, you must not know't. CORV But do not you forget to send now. MOS Fear not. [EXIT.] CORV Where are you, wife? my Celia? wife? [RE-ENTER CELIA.] —What, blubbering? Come, dry those tears. I think thou thought'st me in earnest; Ha! by this light I talk'd so but to try thee: Methinks the lightness of the occasion Should have confirm'd thee. Come, I am not jealous. CEL No! CORV Faith I am not I, nor never was; It is a poor unprofitable humour. Do not I know, if women have a will, They'll do 'gainst all the watches of the world, And that the feircest spies are tamed with gold? Tut, I am confident in thee, thou shalt see't; And see I'll give thee cause too, to believe it. Come kiss me. Go, and make thee ready, straight, In all thy best attire, thy choicest j**els, Put them all on, and, with them, thy best looks: We are invited to a solemn feast, At old Volpone's, where it shall appear How far I am free from jealousy or fear. [exeunt.]