Part 16 (2/2)

MOSCA SITTING BY HIM.

ENTER CORVINO, FORCING IN CELIA.

CORV: Nay, now, there is no starting back, and therefore, Resolve upon it: I have so decreed.

It must be done. Nor would I move't, afore, Because I would avoid all s.h.i.+fts and tricks, That might deny me.

CEL: Sir, let me beseech you, Affect not these strange trials; if you doubt My chast.i.ty, why, lock me up for ever: Make me the heir of darkness. Let me live, Where I may please your fears, if not your trust.

CORV: Believe it, I have no such humour, I.

All that I speak I mean; yet I'm not mad; Nor horn-mad, see you? Go to, shew yourself Obedient, and a wife.

CEL: O heaven!

CORV: I say it, Do so.

CEL: Was this the train?

CORV: I've told you reasons; What the physicians have set down; how much It may concern me; what my engagements are; My means; and the necessity of those means, For my recovery: wherefore, if you be Loyal, and mine, be won, respect my venture.

CEL: Before your honour?

CORV: Honour! tut, a breath: There's no such thing, in nature: a mere term Invented to awe fools. What is my gold The worse, for touching, clothes for being look'd on?

Why, this is no more. An old decrepit wretch, That has no sense, no sinew; takes his meat With others' fingers; only knows to gape, When you do scald his gums; a voice; a shadow; And, what can this man hurt you?

CEL [ASIDE.]: Lord! what spirit Is this hath enter'd him?

CORV: And for your fame, That's such a jig; as if I would go tell it, Cry it on the Piazza! who shall know it, But he that cannot speak it, and this fellow, Whose lips are in my pocket? save yourself, (If you'll proclaim't, you may,) I know no other, Shall come to know it.

CEL: Are heaven and saints then nothing?

Will they be blind or stupid?

CORV: How!

CEL: Good sir, Be jealous still, emulate them; and think What hate they burn with toward every sin.

CORV: I grant you: if I thought it were a sin, I would not urge you. Should I offer this To some young Frenchman, or hot Tuscan blood That had read Aretine, conn'd all his prints, Knew every quirk within l.u.s.t's labyrinth, And were professed critic in lechery; And I would look upon him, and applaud him, This were a sin: but here, 'tis contrary, A pious work, mere charity for physic, And honest polity, to a.s.sure mine own.

CEL: O heaven! canst thou suffer such a change?

VOLP: Thou art mine honour, Mosca, and my pride, My joy, my tickling, my delight! Go bring them.

MOS [ADVANCING.]: Please you draw near, sir.

CORV: Come on, what- You will not be rebellious? by that light-

MOS: Sir, Signior Corvino, here, is come to see you.

VOLP: Oh!

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