Part 12 (1/2)

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 h.e.l.l, 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.s.sengers.

[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, wh.o.r.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 death?

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: Death! that d.a.m.n'd mountebank; but for the law Now, I could kill 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 wh.o.r.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.i.t.c.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, l.u.s.ty, 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: Death to my hopes, This is my villainous fortune! Best to hire Some common courtezan.