Part 29 (1/2)

Marry, and shall: 'pray you, fairly quit my house.

Nay, raise no tempest with your looks; but hark you, Remember what your ladys.h.i.+p offer'd me, To put you in an heir; go to, think on it: And what you said e'en your best madams did For maintenance, and why not you? Enough.

Go home, and use the poor sir Pol, your knight, well, For fear I tell some riddles; go, be melancholy.

[EXIT LADY WOULD-BE.]

VOLP: O, my fine devil!

CORV: Mosca, 'pray you a word.

MOS: Lord! will you not take your dispatch hence yet?

Methinks, of all, you should have been the example.

Why should you stay here? with what thought? what promise?

Hear you; do not you know, I know you an a.s.s, And that you would most fain have been a wittol, If fortune would have let you? that you are A declared cuckold, on good terms? This pearl, You'll say, was yours? right: this diamond?

I'll not deny't, but thank you. Much here else?

It may be so. Why, think that these good works May help to hide your bad. I'll not betray you; Although you be but extraordinary, And have it only in t.i.tle, it sufficeth: Go home, be melancholy too, or mad.

[EXIT CORVINO.]

VOLP: Rare Mosca! how his villany becomes him!

VOLT: Certain he doth delude all these for me.

CORB: Mosca the heir!

VOLP: O, his four eyes have found it.

CORB: I am cozen'd, cheated, by a parasite slave; Harlot, thou hast gull'd me.

MOS: Yes, sir. Stop your mouth, Or I shall draw the only tooth is left.

Are not you he, that filthy covetous wretch, With the three legs, that, here, in hope of prey, Have, any time this three years, snuff'd about, With your most grovelling nose; and would have hired Me to the poisoning of my patron, sir?

Are not you he that have to-day in court Profess'd the disinheriting of your son?

Perjured yourself? Go home, and die, and stink.

If you but croak a syllable, all comes out: Away, and call your porters!

[exit corbaccio.]

Go, go, stink.

VOLP: Excellent varlet!

VOLT: Now, my faithful Mosca, I find thy constancy.

MOS: Sir!

VOLT: Sincere.

MOS [WRITING.]: ”A table Of porphyry”-I marle, you'll be thus troublesome.

VOLP: Nay, leave off now, they are gone.