MOS: You have not only done yourself a good-

CORB: But multiplied it on my son.

MOS: 'Tis right, sir.

CORB: Still, my invention.

MOS: 'Las, sir! heaven knows, It hath been all my study, all my care, (I e'en grow gray withal,) how to work things-

CORB: I do conceive, sweet Mosca.

MOS: You are he, For whom I labour here.

CORB: Ay, do, do, do: I'll straight about it.

[GOING.]

MOS: Rook go with you, raven!

CORB: I know thee honest.

MOS [ASIDE.]: You do lie, sir!

CORB: And-

MOS: Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir.

CORB: I do not doubt, to be a father to thee.

MOS: Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing.

CORB: I may have my youth restored to me, why not?

MOS: Your worship is a precious a.s.s!

CORB: What say'st thou?

MOS: I do desire your worship to make haste, sir.

CORB: 'Tis done, 'tis done, I go.

[EXIT.]

VOLP [LEAPING FROM HIS COUCH.]: O, I shall burst!

Let out my sides, let out my sides-

MOS: Contain Your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope Is such a bait, it covers any hook.

VOLP: O, but thy working, and thy placing it!

I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee: I never knew thee in so rare a humour.

MOS: Alas sir, I but do as I am taught; Follow your grave instructions; give them words; Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence.

VOLP: 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment Is avarice to itself!

MOS: Ay, with our help, sir.

VOLP: So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on old age, Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish Can be more frequent with them, their limbs faint, Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, All dead before them; yea, their very teeth, Their instruments of eating, failing them: Yet this is reckon'd life! nay, here was one; Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer!

Feels not his gout, nor palsy; feigns himself Younger by scores of years, flatters his age With confident belying it, hopes he may, With charms, like Aeson, have his youth restored: And with these thoughts so battens, as if fate Would be as easily cheated on, as he, And all turns air!

[KNOCKING WITHIN.]

Who's that there, now? a third?

MOS: Close, to your couch again; I hear his voice: It is Corvino, our spruce merchant.

VOLP [LIES DOWN AS BEFORE.]: Dead.

MOS: Another bout, sir, with your eyes.

[ANOINTING THEM.]

-Who's there?

[ENTER CORVINO.]

Signior Corvino! come most wish'd for! O, How happy were you, if you knew it, now!

CORV: Why? what? wherein?

MOS: The tardy hour is come, sir.

CORV: He is not dead?

MOS: Not dead, sir, but as good; He knows no man.

CORV: How shall I do then?

MOS: Why, sir?

CORV: I have brought him here a pearl.

MOS: Perhaps he has So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir: He still calls on you; nothing but your name Is in his mouth: Is your pearl orient, sir?

CORV: Venice was never owner of the like.

VOLP [FAINTLY.]: Signior Corvino.

MOS: Hark.

VOLP: Signior Corvino!

MOS: He calls you; step and give it him.-He's here, sir, And he has brought you a rich pearl.

CORV: How do you, sir?

Tell him, it doubles the twelfth caract.