Ben Jonson - Volpone; Or, The Fox (Act 5 Scene 5.4) lyrics

A STREET. ENTER CORBACCIO AND CORVINO. CORB They say, the court is set. CORV We must maintain Our first tale good, for both our reputations. CORB Why, mine's no tale: my son would there have k**'d me. CORV That's true, I had forgot:— [ASIDE.]—mine is, I am sure. But for your Will, sir. CORB Ay, I'll come upon him For that hereafter; now his patron's dead. [ENTER VOLPONE.] VOLP Signior Corvino! and Corbaccio! sir, Much joy unto you. CORV Of what? VOLP The sudden good, Dropt down upon you— CORB Where? VOLP And, none knows how, From old Volpone, sir. CORB Out, arrant knave! VOLP Let not your too much wealth, sir, make you furious. CORB Away, thou varlet! VOLP Why, sir? CORB Dost thou mock me? VOLP You mock the world, sir; did you not change Wills? CORB Out, harlot! VOLP O! belike you are the man, Signior Corvino? 'faith, you carry it well; You grow not mad withal: I love your spirit: You are not over-leaven'd with your fortune. You should have some would swell now, like a wine-fat, With such an autumn—Did he give you all, sir? CORB Avoid, you rascal! VOLP Troth, your wife has shewn Herself a very woman; but you are well, You need not care, you have a good estate, To bear it out sir, better by this chance: Except Corbaccio have a share. CORV Hence, varlet. VOLP You will not be acknown, sir; why, 'tis wise. Thus do all gamesters, at all games, dissemble: No man will seem to win. [exeunt corvino and corbaccio.] —Here comes my vulture, Heaving his beak up in the air, and snuffing. [ENTER VOLTORE.] VOLT Outstript thus, by a parasite! a slave, Would run on errands, and make legs for crumbs? Well, what I'll do— VOLP The court stays for your worship. I e'en rejoice, sir, at your worship's happiness, And that it fell into so learned hands, That understand the fingering— VOLT What do you mean? VOLP I mean to be a suitor to your worship, For the small tenement, out of reparations, That, to the end of your long row of houses, By the Piscaria: it was, in Volpone's time, Your predecessor, ere he grew diseased, A handsome, pretty, custom'd bawdy-house, As any was in Venice, none dispraised; But fell with him; his body and that house Decay'd, together. VOLT Come sir, leave your prating. VOLP Why, if your worship give me but your hand, That I may have the refusal, I have done. 'Tis a mere toy to you, sir; candle-rents; As your learn'd worship knows— VOLT What do I know? VOLP Marry, no end of your wealth, sir, God decrease it! VOLT Mistaking knave! what, mockst thou my misfortune? [EXIT.] VOLP His blessing on your heart, sir; would 'twere more!— Now to my first again, at the next corner. [EXIT.]