Volpone, Ben Jonson [sight word readers .TXT] 📗

tell him, What I have done for him: marry, my state is hopeless. Will him to pray for me; and to use his fortune With reverence, when he comes to’t.

MOS: Do you hear, sir? Go to him with your wife.

CORV: Heart of my father! Wilt thou persist thus? come, I pray thee, come. Thou seest ‘tis nothing, Celia. By this hand, I shall grow violent. Come, do’t, I say.

CEL: Sir, kill me, rather: I will take down poison, Eat burning coals, do any thing.—

CORV: Be damn’d! Heart, I’ll drag thee hence, home, by the hair; Cry thee a strumpet through the streets; rip up Thy mouth unto thine ears; and slit thy nose, Like a raw rotchet!—Do not tempt me; come, Yield, I am loth—Death! I will buy some slave Whom I will kill, and bind thee to him, alive; And at my window hang you forth: devising Some monstrous crime, which I, in capital letters, Will eat into thy flesh with aquafortis, And burning corsives, on this stubborn breast. Now, by the blood thou hast incensed, I’ll do it!

CEL: Sir, what you please, you may, I am your martyr.

CORV: Be not thus obstinate, I have not deserved it: Think who it is intreats you. ‘Prithee, sweet;— Good faith, thou shalt have jewels, gowns, attires, What thou wilt think, and ask. Do but go kiss him. Or touch him, but. For my sake.—At my suit.— This once.—No! not! I shall remember this. Will you disgrace me thus? Do you thirst my undoing?

MOS: Nay, gentle lady, be advised.

CORV: No, no. She has watch’d her time. Ods precious, this is scurvy, ‘Tis very scurvy: and you are—

MOS: Nay, good, sir.

CORV: An arrant Locust, by heaven, a locust! Whore, crocodile, that hast thy tears prepared, Expecting how thou’lt bid them flow—

MOS: Nay, ‘Pray you, sir! She will consider.

CEL: Would my life would serve To satisfy—

CORV: S’death! if she would but speak to him, And save my reputation, it were somewhat; But spightfully to affect my utter ruin!

MOS: Ay, now you have put your fortune in her hands. Why i’faith, it is her modesty, I must quit her. If you were absent, she would be more coming; I know it: and dare undertake for her. What woman can before her husband? ‘pray you, Let us depart, and leave her here.

CORV: Sweet Celia, Thou may’st redeem all, yet; I’ll say no more: If not, esteem yourself as lost,—Nay, stay there.

[SHUTS THE DOOR, AND EXIT WITH MOSCA.]

CEL: O God, and his good angels! whither, whither, Is shame fled human breasts? that with such ease, Men dare put off your honours, and their own? Is that, which ever was a cause of life, Now placed beneath the basest circumstance, And modesty an exile made, for money?

VOLP: Ay, in Corvino, and such earth-fed minds, [LEAPING FROM HIS COUCH.] That never tasted the true heaven of love. Assure thee, Celia, he that would sell thee, Only for hope of gain, and that uncertain, He would have sold his part of Paradise For ready money, had he met a cope-man. Why art thou mazed to see me thus revived? Rather applaud thy beauty’s miracle; ‘Tis thy great work: that hath, not now alone, But sundry times raised me, in several shapes, And, but this morning, like a mountebank; To see thee at thy window: ay, before I would have left my practice, for thy love, In varying figures, I would have contended With the blue Proteus, or the horned flood. Now art thou welcome.

CEL: Sir!

VOLP: Nay, fly me not. Nor let thy false imagination That I was bed-rid, make thee think I am so: Thou shalt not find it. I am, now, as fresh, As hot, as high, and in as jovial plight, As when, in that so celebrated scene, At recitation of our comedy, For entertainment of the great Valois, I acted young Antinous; and attracted The eyes and ears of all the ladies present, To admire each graceful gesture, note, and footing. [SINGS.] Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love, Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever; Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns, that set, may rise again: But if once we loose this light, ‘Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumour are but toys. Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies? Or his easier ears beguile, Thus remooved by our wile?— ‘Tis no sin love’s fruits to steal: But the sweet thefts to reveal; To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been.

CEL: Some serene blast me, or dire lightning strike This my offending face!

VOLP: Why droops my Celia? Thou hast, in place of a base husband, found A worthy lover: use thy fortune well, With secrecy and pleasure. See, behold, What thou art queen of; not in expectation, As I feed others: but possess’d, and crown’d. See, here, a rope of pearl; and each, more orient Than that the brave Egyptian queen caroused: Dissolve and drink them. See, a carbuncle, May put out both the eyes of our St Mark; A diamond, would have bought Lollia Paulina, When she came in like star-light, hid with jewels, That were the spoils of provinces; take these, And wear, and lose them: yet remains an ear-ring To purchase them again, and this whole state. A gem but worth a private patrimony, Is nothing: we will eat such at a meal. The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingales, The brains of peacocks, and of estriches, Shall be our food: and, could we get the phoenix, Though nature lost her kind, she were our dish.

CEL: Good sir, these things might move a mind affected With such delights; but I, whose innocence Is all I can think wealthy, or worth th’ enjoying, And which, once lost, I have nought to lose beyond it, Cannot be taken with these sensual baits: If you have conscience—

VOLP: ‘Tis the beggar’s virtue, If thou hast wisdom, hear me, Celia. Thy baths shall be the juice of July-flowers, Spirit of roses, and of violets, The milk of unicorns, and panthers’ breath Gather’d in bags, and mixt with Cretan wines. Our drink shall be prepared gold and amber; Which we will take, until my roof whirl round With the vertigo: and my dwarf shall dance, My eunuch sing, my fool make up the antic. Whilst we, in changed shapes, act Ovid’s tales, Thou, like Europa now, and I like Jove, Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine: So, of the rest, till we have quite run through, And wearied all the fables of the gods. Then will I have thee in more modern forms, Attired like some sprightly dame of France, Brave Tuscan lady, or proud Spanish beauty; Sometimes, unto the Persian sophy’s wife; Or the grand signior’s mistress; and, for change, To one of our most artful courtezans, Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian; And I will meet thee in as many shapes: Where we may so transfuse our wandering souls, Out at our lips, and score up sums of pleasures, [SINGS.] That the curious shall not know How to tell them as they flow; And the envious, when they find What there number is, be pined.

CEL: If you have ears that will be pierc’d—or eyes That can be open’d—a heart that may be touch’d— Or any part that yet sounds man about you— If you have touch of holy saints—or heaven— Do me the grace to let me ‘scape—if not, Be bountiful and kill me. You do know, I am a creature, hither ill betray’d, By one, whose shame I would forget it were: If you will deign me neither of these graces, Yet feed your wrath, sir, rather than your lust, (It is a vice comes nearer manliness,) And punish that unhappy crime of nature, Which you miscall my beauty; flay my face, Or poison it with ointments, for seducing Your blood to this rebellion. Rub these hands, With what may cause an eating leprosy, E’en to my bones and marrow: any thing, That may disfavour me, save in my honour— And I will kneel to you, pray for you, pay down A thousand hourly vows, sir, for your health; Report, and think you virtuous—

VOLP: Think me cold, Frosen and impotent, and so report me? That I had Nestor’s hernia, thou wouldst think. I do degenerate, and abuse my nation, To play with opportunity thus long; I should have done the act, and then have parley’d. Yield, or I’ll force thee.

[SEIZES HER.]

CEL: O! just God!

VOLP: In vain—

BON [RUSHING IN]: Forbear, foul ravisher, libidinous swine! Free the forced lady, or thou diest, impostor. But that I’m loth to snatch thy punishment Out of the hand of justice, thou shouldst, yet, Be made the timely sacrifice of vengeance, Before this altar, and this dross, thy idol.— Lady, let’s quit the place, it is the den Of villany; fear nought, you have a guard: And he, ere long, shall meet his just reward.

[EXEUNT BON. AND CEL.]

VOLP: Fall on me, roof, and bury me in ruin! Become my grave, that wert my shelter! O! I am unmask’d, unspirited, undone, Betray’d to beggary, to infamy—

[ENTER MOSCA, WOUNDED AND BLEEDING.]

MOS: Where shall I run, most wretched shame of men, To beat out my unlucky brains?

VOLP: Here, here. What! dost thou bleed?

MOS: O that his well-driv’n sword Had been so courteous to have cleft me down Unto the navel; ere I lived to see My life, my hopes, my spirits, my patron, all Thus desperately engaged, by my error!

VOLP: Woe on thy fortune!

MOS: And my follies, sir.

VOLP: Thou hast made me miserable.

MOS: And myself, sir. Who would have thought he would have harken’d, so?

VOLP: What shall we do?

MOS: I know not; if my heart Could expiate the mischance, I’d pluck it out. Will you be pleased to hang me? or cut my throat? And I’ll requite you, sir. Let us die like Romans, Since we have lived like Grecians.

[KNOCKING WITHIN.]

VOLP: Hark! who’s there? I hear some footing; officers, the saffi, Come to apprehend us! I do feel the brand Hissing already at my forehead; now, Mine ears are boring.

MOS: To your couch, sir, you, Make that place good, however. [VOLPONE LIES DOWN, AS BEFORE.] —Guilty men Suspect what they deserve still. [ENTER CORBACCIO.] Signior Corbaccio!

CORB: Why, how now, Mosca?

MOS: O, undone, amazed, sir. Your son, I know not by what accident, Acquainted with your purpose to my patron, Touching your Will, and making him your heir, Enter’d our house with violence, his sword drawn Sought for you, call’d you wretch, unnatural, Vow’d he would kill you.

CORB: Me!

MOS: Yes, and my patron.

CORB: This act shall disinherit him indeed; Here is the Will.

MOS: ‘Tis well, sir.

CORB: Right and well: Be you as careful now for me.

[ENTER VOLTORE, BEHIND.]

MOS: My life, sir, Is not more tender’d; I am only yours.

CORB: How does he? will he die shortly, think’st thou?

MOS: I fear He’ll outlast May.

CORB: To-day?

MOS: No, last out May, sir.

CORB: Could’st thou not give him a dram?

MOS: O, by no means, sir.

CORB: Nay, I’ll not bid you.

VOLT [COMING FORWARD.]: This is a knave, I see.

MOS [SEEING VOLTORE.]: How! signior Voltore! [ASIDE.] did he hear me?

VOLT: Parasite!

MOS: Who’s that?—O, sir, most timely welcome—

VOLT: Scarce, To the discovery of your tricks, I fear. You are his, ONLY? and mine, also? are you not?

MOS: Who? I, sir?

VOLT: You, sir. What device is this About a Will?

MOS: A plot for you, sir.

VOLT: Come, Put not your foists upon me;