MOS: Yes, and presented him this piece of plate.

CORB: To be his heir?

MOS: I do not know, sir.

CORB: True: I know it too.

MOS [ASIDE.]: By your own scale, sir.

CORB: Well, I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, Will quite weigh down his plate.

MOS [TAKING THE BAG.]: Yea, marry, sir.

This is true physic, this your sacred medicine, No talk of opiates, to this great elixir!

CORB: 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.

MOS: It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl.

CORB: Ay, do, do, do.

MOS: Most blessed cordial!

This will recover him.

CORB: Yes, do, do, do.

MOS: I think it were not best, sir.

CORB: What?

MOS: To recover him.

CORB: O, no, no, no; by no means.

MOS: Why, sir, this Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it.

CORB: 'Tis true, therefore forbear; I'll take my venture: Give me it again.

MOS: At no hand; pardon me: You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I Will so advise you, you shall have it all.

CORB: How?

MOS: All, sir; 'tis your right, your own; no man Can claim a part: 'tis yours, without a rival, Decreed by destiny.

CORB: How, how, good Mosca?

MOS: I'll tell you sir. This fit he shall recover.

CORB: I do conceive you.

MOS: And, on first advantage Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him Unto the making of his testament: And shew him this.

[POINTING TO THE MONEY.]

CORB: Good, good.

MOS: 'Tis better yet, If you will hear, sir.

CORB: Yes, with all my heart.

MOS: Now, would I counsel you, make home with speed; There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir.

CORB: And disinherit My son!

MOS: O, sir, the better: for that colour Shall make it much more taking.

CORB: O, but colour?

MOS: This will sir, you shall send it unto me.

Now, when I come to inforce, as I will do, Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more than many gifts, your this day's present, And last, produce your will; where, without thought, Or least regard, unto your proper issue, A son so brave, and highly meriting, The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Upon my master, and made him your heir: He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead, But out of conscience, and mere grat.i.tude-

CORB: He must p.r.o.nounce me his?

MOS: 'Tis true.

CORB: This plot Did I think on before.

MOS: I do believe it.

CORB: Do you not believe it?

MOS: Yes, sir.

CORB: Mine own project.

MOS: Which, when he hath done, sir.

CORB: Publish'd me his heir?

MOS: And you so certain to survive him-

CORB: Ay.

MOS: Being so l.u.s.ty a man-

CORB: 'Tis true.

MOS: Yes, sir-

CORB: I thought on that too. See, how he should be The very organ to express my thoughts!