ENTER CORBACCIO AND CORVINO.
They say, the court is set.
We must maintain
Our first tale good, for both our reputations.
Why, mine's no tale: my son would there have kill'd me.
That's true, I had forgot:—
[ASIDE.]—mine is, I am sure.
But for your Will, sir.
Ay, I'll come upon him
For that hereafter; now his patron's dead.
Signior Corvino! and Corbaccio! sir,
Much joy unto you.
The sudden good,
Dropt down upon you—
And, none knows how,
From old Volpone, sir.
Out, arrant knave!
Let not your too much wealth, sir, make you furious.
Away, thou varlet!
Dost thou mock me?
You mock the world, sir; did you not change Wills?
O! belike you are the man,
Signior Corvino? 'faith, you carry it well;
You grow not mad withal: I love your spirit:
You are not over-leaven'd with your fortune.
You should have some would swell now, like a wine-fat,
With such an autumn—Did he give you all, sir?
Avoid, you rascal!
Troth, your wife has shewn
Herself a very woman; but you are well,
You need not care, you have a good estate,
To bear it out sir, better by this chance:
Except Corbaccio have a share.
You will not be acknown, sir; why, 'tis wise.
Thus do all gamesters, at all games, dissemble:
No man will seem to win.
[exeunt corvino and corbaccio.]
—Here comes my vulture,
Heaving his beak up in the air, and snuffing.
Outstript thus, by a parasite! a slave,
Would run on errands, and make legs for crumbs?
Well, what I'll do—
The court stays for your worship.
I e'en rejoice, sir, at your worship's happiness,
And that it fell into so learned hands,
That understand the fingering—
What do you mean?
I mean to be a suitor to your worship,
For the small tenement, out of reparations,
That, to the end of your long row of houses,
By the Piscaria: it was, in Volpone's time,
Your predecessor, ere he grew diseased,
A handsome, pretty, custom'd bawdy-house,
As any was in Venice, none dispraised;
But fell with him; his body and that house
Come sir, leave your prating.
Why, if your worship give me but your hand,
That I may have the refusal, I have done.
'Tis a mere toy to you, sir; candle-rents;
As your learn'd worship knows—
What do I know?
Marry, no end of your wealth, sir, God decrease it!
Mistaking knave! what, mockst thou my misfortune?
His blessing on your heart, sir; would 'twere more!—
Now to my first again, at the next corner.