Part 2 (1/2)

Now, prithee, sweet soul, in all thy variation, Which body would'st thou choose, to keep up thy station?

AND: Troth, this I am in: even here would I tarry.

NAN: 'Cause here the delight of each s.e.x thou canst vary?

AND: Alas, those pleasures be stale and forsaken; No, 'tis your fool wherewith I am so taken, The only one creature that I can call blessed: For all other forms I have proved most distressed.

NAN: Spoke true, as thou wert in Pythagoras still.

This learned opinion we celebrate will, Fellow eunuch, as behoves us, with all our wit and art, To dignify that whereof ourselves are so great and special a part.

VOLP: Now, very, very pretty! Mosca, this Was thy invention?

MOS: If it please my patron, Not else.

VOLP: It doth, good Mosca.

MOS: Then it was, sir.

NANO AND CASTRONE [SING.]: Fools, they are the only nation Worth men's envy, or admiration: Free from care or sorrow-taking, Selves and others merry making: All they speak or do is sterling.

Your fool he is your great man's darling, And your ladies' sport and pleasure; Tongue and bauble are his treasure.

E'en his face begetteth laughter, And he speaks truth free from slaughter; He's the grace of every feast, And sometimes the chiefest guest; Hath his trencher and his stool, When wit waits upon the fool: O, who would not be He, he, he?

[KNOCKING WITHOUT.]

VOLP: Who's that? Away!

[EXEUNT NANO AND CASTRONE.]

Look, Mosca. Fool, begone!

[EXIT ANDROGYNO.]

MOS: 'Tis Signior Voltore, the advocate; I know him by his knock.

VOLP: Fetch me my gown, My furs and night-caps; say, my couch is changing, And let him entertain himself awhile Without i' the gallery.

[EXIT MOSCA.]

Now, now, my clients Begin their visitation! Vulture, kite, Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey, That think me turning carcase, now they come; I am not for them yet- [RE-ENTER MOSCA, WITH THE GOWN, ETC.]

How now! the news?

MOS: A piece of plate, sir.

VOLP: Of what bigness?

MOS: Huge, Ma.s.sy, and antique, with your name inscribed, And arms engraven.

VOLP: Good! and not a fox Stretch'd on the earth, with fine delusive sleights, Mocking a gaping crow? ha, Mosca?

MOS: Sharp, sir.

VOLP: Give me my furs.

[PUTS ON HIS SICK DRESS.]