%;VOLPONE^,
 
 LIBRARY 
 MWVEBsrrr of 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 SAM Ol£«°
 
 Oversize
 
 Ben Ionson 
 
 HIS 
 
 Volpone: or The Foxe
 
 Of this Edition One Thousand Copies have been printed for 
 England and America in demy quarto on Art Paper ot which this 
 is No. 
 
 And One Hinidred Copies in deniv quarto on Impeinal Japanese 
 Vellum (each containing an extra set ot the Plates in large size printed 
 in photogravure) of which this is No.
 
 BEN lONSON 
 
 / t-xz-u 
 
 HIS 
 
 VOLPONE: or THE FOXE 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 WITH A CRITICAL ESSAY ON THE AUTHOR BY VINCENT O'SULLIVAN 
 
 AND A FRONTISPIECE FIVE INITIAL LETTERS AND A COVER 
 
 DESIGN ILLUSTRATIVE AND DECORATIVE BY 
 
 AUBREY BEARDSLEY 
 
 TOGETHER WITH AN EULOGY OF THE ARTIST BY ROBERT ROSS 
 
 Siiini! et jociindii et idoiiea dicere vitne 
 
 LONDON 
 
 LEONARD SMITH ERS am. Co 
 
 5 OLD BOND STREET W 
 
 MDCCCXC\III
 
 THIS EDITION OF BEN lONSON'S FAMOUS PLAY 
 "VOLPONE" IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE 
 PUBLISHERS TO THE MOTHER OF THE GIFTED ARTIST 
 WHOSE WORK, HAD HE LIVED TO COMPLETE THE 
 SERIES OF TWENTY-FOUR DRAWINGS IN COURSE OF 
 PREPARATION, WOULD HAVE SO ENRICHED IT. 
 
 IX
 
 THE DRAWINGS 
 
 COVER DESIGN ...... Page i 
 
 FRONTISPIECE ...... vi 
 
 VIGNETTE TO THE ARGUMENT ... 19 
 
 VIGNETTE TO ACT i . . . . 21 
 
 VIGNETTE TO ACT 2 . . . . 55 
 
 VIGNETTE TO ACT 3 . . . . 83 
 
 VIGNETTE TO ACT 4 . . .116 
 
 VIGNETTE TO ACT 5 .... 147 
 
 XI
 
 BEN lONSON 
 
 1574-1637- 
 
 " 111 vvliom with Nature Study claimed a part, 
 Yet wlio uuto himself owed all his art ; 
 Here lies Ben Jonson : every age will look 
 With sorrow here, with wonder on his hook." 
 
 — Cleveland's Epitapli on Jonson. 
 
 I. 
 
 HAZLITT, in the notice of Kean's representation of " Every Man in His 
 Humour," which was printed in the Examiner newspaper in 1816, has 
 this to say of Jonson : " It has been observed of Ben Jonson, that he 
 painted not so much human nature as temporary manners, not the characters 
 of men, but their humours; which, becoming obsolete, and being in themselves 
 altogether arbitrary and fantastical, have become unintelligible and uninteresting." 
 If this be so, and if his characters, who make so pleasant a company in a 
 library, no longer hold the stage as the characters of Shakespeare and Moliere 
 hold it, a sufficient cause may be found in the fact that Jonson was not 
 himself a player, and that his interest in the drama, as such, was in consequence 
 but half-hearted. Indeed, he does not hesitate to express his contempt for 
 actors ; and so in his introduction to one of his plays we find him declaring : 
 " It was never acted, but most negligently played by some, the King's servants, 
 and more squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the King's subjects"; 
 and Cokes' speech about the " great players " in the fifth act of " Bartholmew 
 P'ayre," is disparaging enough, and is so curiously modern that it might be made 
 to-day. This brings us at once to a close sympathy with Jonson. He probably 
 hated the stage, and gave voice to his hatred whenever he had the chance. 
 He wrote plays, because the drama was the only means of expression, in his 
 day, for the man who wished to pourtray the absurdity and baseness, the 
 vulgarity and obscenity of the human character. Had he lived in our time, 
 or in the time of F"ielding, he would certainly have been a novelist, and a 
 
 xiii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 very great one. The demands of the drama, the entrances and exits and 
 asides, must have pressed upon him heavily : five acts always hampered him : 
 he either had not room to say enough, or he had to say too much. His was 
 a self-conscious art ; and this kind of art cannot be fully developed — nay ! 
 must be very imperfectly developed in the drama. Hence it is that we find 
 so many errors of taste in Jonson's plays — errors, I mean, from the dramatic 
 point of view. His constant intrusion of himself on the audience, his pedantry, 
 his long Latin sentences, his scraps of occult lore, the ill-concealeci desire to 
 talk about himself, to be himself more forward — all these, which might be 
 delightful in a novel, only serve to hinder the action of a plav. Jonson gave 
 little thought to the action of a play ; he cared nothing about it. " In ' Every 
 Man in His Humour,' " says Schlegel in his lecture on Jonson, " the action 
 is extremely feeble and insignificant. In the following, 'Every Man Out of 
 His Humour,' he has gone still farther astray, in seeking the comick effect 
 merely in characatured traits without any interest of situation : it is a 
 rhapsody of ludicrous scenes without connection and progress." Well ! the 
 reason is, as has been said, that Jonson was cabined by the arbitrary forms 
 of the drama ; he wanted more liberty and air. He has alwavs a good story 
 to tell, a story full of interest and irony which dominates the reader till the 
 very end ; but he does not present it dramatically. He presents it rather 
 by the humours and pretensions of his characters, and becomes so engaged 
 with a scene that he very often forgets that a scene is but a part of an act. 
 There is no reason why some of his plays should end where they do, save 
 that the end of the fifth act is come, and the curtain must go down : thus 
 there is in Clerimoni' s remark about the " Knights reformadoes," in the last 
 act of "The Silent Woman," matter for five more acts of excellent comedy, 
 and "The Alchemist" abruptly concludes at a most entertaining point, when 
 Subtle and Dol Common^ mad with rage, are craving for revenge upon the 
 audacious and peremptory Face — a revenge which, we may be sure, Jonson 
 would have been delighted to have given them, had he not been restricted by 
 the canons of the stage. I'urther, his indifference to the details of stagework 
 is shown by the fact that the terminations of his acts are sometimes singularly 
 weak, even for an age when the "strong curtain" was not a fashion. As an 
 instance of this may be cited the second act of " Sejanus " ; and another, tfi 
 which you can easily turn, is the enii of the second act of " X'olpone." 
 
 xiv
 
 THK FOXE 
 
 Joiison, as a rule (I say as a rule, because there are exceptions which will be 
 considercti hereafter) — as a rule, then, Joiison does not gather up his threails, 
 as many an expert playwright, with no whit of Jonson's genius, could gather 
 them up. To write what an actor calls a good play, a play that will act, a 
 man must have something in himself of the actor. I do not mean that he 
 must strut upon the stage, but he must fathom the characters of men by 
 emotion as well as by external observation ; he must be able to assume at 
 will, and to really kel, the passion of the king and the cardinal, the nun-derer 
 and the saint. "Players" — if I may quote Hazlitt again — "players are the 
 only honest hypocrites. Their life is a voluntary dream, a studied madness. 
 To-day kings, to-morrow beggars, it is only when they are 
 themselves that they are nothing." Now, when we look upon Ben Jonson's 
 portrait, upon the intellectual head, the strong nose, the humorous sensual 
 mouth, we can see the soldier in the army of the Netherlands, where, perhaps, 
 — if his fellow soldiers were like those who served with Uncle Toby in 
 Flanders — he acquired his undoubted mastery over abusive and popular 
 language ; we can see the wit, possibly somewhat truculent, of the Mermaid 
 tavern — the man whose personal force was strong enough to gather about him 
 a number of youthful disciples whom he called his sons ; and we can even 
 imagine that we hear him call out to the Rev. William Cartwright, that 
 "most florid and seraphick preacher*": "My son Cartwright writes all like 
 a man!" — these traits, I say, are to be found in Jonson's portrait, but we 
 can discover nothing of the actor. 
 
 As his appeal, therefore, is to the intelligence rather than to the 
 emotions, he has been somewhat neglected, and always more talked about 
 than read. Shakespeare, on the other hand, makes a direct and profound 
 appeal to the emotions, and as the name of Jonson inevitably suggests that 
 of Shakespeare, comparison, often so futile and unfair, will not be out of place 
 here. It may be stated at once that Jonson is wanting in passion, the quality 
 that Shakespeare has in all its excellent strength. Shakespeare's passion is 
 like the deep, continuing notes of an organ ; Jonson's, at the best, but the 
 wailing of violins. Some irrational criticks, however, will have none of Jonson 
 because he did not write like Shakespeare. They fail to perceive, these 
 criticks, that the two men ap|iroached their art from altogether different 
 
 ■■Anthony Woo<l (1632-1695). 
 XV
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 standpoints ; that some of the things that Shakespeare thought fine, Jonson 
 must have disliked intensely ; and that it is as idle to contemn Jonson for 
 «ot writing like Shakespeare as it is to grumble at a racehorse because he is 
 not a lion. Shakespeare's idea of a farcical comedy was " The Merry Wives 
 of Windsor " ; Jonson's conception of the matter was " Bartholmew Fayre." 
 What a difference of thought and feeling is here ! " My son Cartwright 
 writes all like a man " : that was what counted with Jonson — to shirk 
 nothing, to write like a man. Shakespeare, in some of his moods, gives one 
 the grotesque idea that he had his all-seeing eye fixed on the modern 
 fashionable actress. Nor must it be forgotten that to many of their con- 
 temporaries Jonson's plays had a weight and importance which were altogether 
 denied to those of Shakespeare. Webster, for instance, speaks of " the 
 laboured and understanding works of Master Jonson ; the no less worthy 
 composures of the most worthily excellent Master Beaumont and Master 
 Fletcher ; and lastly, without wrong last to be named, the right happy and 
 copious industry of Master Shakespeare, Master Decker, and Master Heywood." 
 This verdict has been, justly, long set aside ; still, there it stands, and may 
 be taken as the general opinion of those who met Shakespeare and Jonson 
 from day to day. Whether it was Jonson's parade of learning, or force of 
 character, which impressed the men who surrounded him, it is difficult to 
 decide ; but one may hazard that Shakespeare was the quietest and dullest of 
 all the company that resorted to the Mermaid. No man was ever less of an 
 egoist than he ; Jonson on the contrary, made of his ego a pillar of fire. 
 Gifford has cleared Jonson from the charge of enmity and jealousy towards 
 Shakespeare, and I)e ()uincey alludes to the lines written by Jonson in mciiKM-y 
 of Shakespeare as "those generous lines which have so absurdly been taxed 
 with faint praise" ; but if we suppose for a moment the charge to be true, 
 is it too fanciful to infer that Shakespeare, in an age when it was not uncommon 
 to take hints for characters from living persons (Jonson had to repudiate this 
 insinuation in his own case), found his revenge in gathering from Jonson some 
 of the qualities which make i aUtaff '^ Be that as it will, it is no light [iraise 
 to say of Jonson that hi.- was influenced not at all by Shakespeare. With a 
 man having a style so beautiful ami tantalizing working li\ his side, to have 
 resisted every echo of that style, ami to have inventeii a style ami manner 
 entirely his own, shows great and lasting strength. 1 have saiil already, but 
 
 xvi
 
 TTTF. FOXE 
 
 it appears t(i nic necessary to insist, that Jonson committed the fatal mistake 
 of bestrewing his coniei-iies with Latin sentences and recondite Ic^re. Could 
 any mistake be more tatal than to fling such things at the ears of the 
 groundlings, and at people who came to the theatre for their pleasure ? Well 
 as Jonson understood the human kind — how admirable and how closely 
 observed is the young squire Cokes! — his egoism, his desire to shine and 
 beuilder, overcame his judgment. Notwithstanding Milton's lines — 
 
 "Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
 Or sweetest Shakespeare, fancy's child, 
 Warble his native woodnotes wild " 
 
 — it is evident that Jonson put on his " learned sock " too often. Shakespeare's 
 
 good taste, or his inferior scholastick education, saved him from such a 
 
 blunder ; but setting that aside, it is not easy to perceive in what respect, 
 
 save that of delicacy — which we find to be but a spinster's qualification when 
 
 we consider the bluntness and mode of the seventeenth century — most of the 
 
 comedies of Shakespeare are greater than those of Jonson. The comedies, be 
 
 it noted ; for Jonson was hardly on speaking terms with the tragick muse. 
 
 He could never have composed that marvellous love-poem bathed in the 
 
 mystick light of the Italian moon, " Romeo and Juliet " ; he could neither have 
 
 composed the thunderous cadences of "Lear," nor "Othello," that funeral 
 
 march down to bitter death. The philosophy of " Hamlet " was quite out of 
 
 his reach. But then, on the other side, " Volpone " and " The Alchemist " 
 
 were beyond Shakespeare. " He is loth to make nature afraid in his plays," 
 
 declared Jonson, speaking of himself, "like those that beget tales, tempests, 
 
 and such like drolleries, to mix his head with other men's heels." He had 
 
 not generally Shakespeare's matchless poetick style to cast a glamour over 
 
 everything he touched ; but he has often written lines which are worthy to 
 
 stand beside any lines of Shakespeare's, except the very greatest. Here is an 
 
 instance : — 
 
 " See, behold. 
 What thou art queen of; not in expectation, 
 As I feed others: but possessed and crowned. 
 See, here, a rope of pearl ; and each more orient 
 Than the brave /Egyptian queen caroused : 
 Dissolve and diink them. See, a carl^uncle. 
 
 xvii C
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 May put out both the eyes of our Saint 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." 
 
 This is from a comedy — a form of art in which Jonsoii was always at 
 his best. In tragedy, the importance of the subject-matter seemed to depress 
 him; and the long speech of Petreius^ in the closing scene of "Catiline, his 
 Conspiracy," which some criticks have praised, strikes us now as merely 
 rhetorical and turgid. He had not Shakespeare's art of making his grand 
 characters talk in the grand manner and yet remain natural ; but the talk of 
 his comedy characters is in most places more natural than that of Shakespeare's. 
 Moreover, in the whole range of his comedy productions, you shall find no 
 character so stupid and irritating as some of Shakespeare's Fools. The 
 watchmen, Bristle and Haggise, seem to me better than Dogberry ; and this 
 is only one example of the way in which Jonson's minute observation and 
 notation of character, to the exclusion of all else, helped him and stood to 
 him. So far did he carry this, that, were he living to-day, some might even 
 accuse him of being under "the tyranny ot the ciocument." Shakespeare was 
 constantly engaged in enforcing, either directly or indirectly, some great moral 
 law, and the dire consequences which spring from a violation of that law ; 
 Jonson, ill this matter, clung to the formula that what people least understand, 
 they explain. Jonson seldom preaches : he is uneasy in the pulpit. No play 
 could be more unmoral than " Hai^tholmew bayre," in which whores and bullies, 
 horse-coursers and cutpurses, gamblers and indiscreet married ladies, after 
 committing various misdeeds, are all at the end invited home to supper liy 
 Overdoo, a Justice of the Peace. In no part ol Jonson's work does he la\' 
 himself open to the objection, wiiich l.amb made against Decker's play "I'he 
 Honest Whore," ot tiwelling with relish ujion the details of \'ice foi- the 
 purpose of making vice odious. Defoe sometimes does just that ; but 
 never Jonson. 
 
 His connnand ot the language ot the peoj-ile was extraordinary ami 
 in this he was tar aheaii of any writer ot his time. In the i]uarrel between 
 Face, Subtle, anil Dal Comnuin, in the opening scene of "I'he Alchemist," he 
 shews this command with all his strength, and there it de\elops into more 
 than a mere conuuand ot popular language, and becomes an amazing control 
 
 xviii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 of English spctvh, an astonishing power over words. When luicr has finished, 
 we think the last word has liecn said ; when Sidi^k concludes we change our 
 minds ; hut Do/'s harangue leaves us stunned and confounded, unable to 
 hear more, if there were any more to say. Again, the curse pronounced in an 
 Orange lodge, upon those who refuse to drink to the memory of "the good 
 King William" seems about as much as we can stand in that line; but it 
 becomes the babble of the nursery when placed beside the curses heaped by 
 Morose and True--zvi/ upon Cutberd the barber in "The Silent Woman." And 
 let it be remembered that to this mastery of language was added the faculty 
 of making his characters live and move. There are no wooden dolls in 
 Jonson's gallery : his dramatis persotue (I am always speaking of his comedies) 
 stand up and walk. In this faculty I do not know that he has been excelled 
 by any other writer — certainly by no other writer in dramatick form. Moliere 
 may be suggested ; but a ciimparison with Moliere is obviously to be 
 deprecated, as the two writers deal with altogether different manners and 
 moral codes, and they seldom touch each other. In the places where they do 
 touch, it must be granted that the advantage lies with Moliere. The 
 " Collegiates " in " Epicoene " are as inferior to the two silly women in " Les 
 Precieuses Ridicules," as Mascarilk is superior to Sir Amorous La-Foole. In 
 his study of the lower and criminal classes of English Society, however, which 
 was his favourite subject, it may be asserted that Jonson is almost without a 
 rival. Who remembers anyone else, after reading " Colonel Jack " or " Moll 
 Planders," but the hero or the heroine.'' We become so interested — and Defoe 
 himself became so interested — in the adventures of Moll Flanders that the 
 minor characters pass away like wraiths, and only affect us as they advance 
 or retard her fortunes. But Jonson in many of his comedies presents to u 
 a body-guard of blackguards, all perfectly disparate, with their own meth 
 and pursuits. The only English writer who approaches him at all in thii 
 respect is Dickens. Whether Pickwick and Wrinkle, Silas Wegg and Squeers, 
 Podsnap, Boffin, the Veneerings, and the rest of them, are, or are not, exact 
 types of English society in the middle of this century, is more than I can 
 pretend to determine : I do not think it likely : but if Dickens exaggerated, 
 if he saw through coloured glasses, Jonson's characters have been called (notably 
 by Schlegel) caricatures. Both were interested in the outcasts and eccentricks 
 of society ; both caught the speech of the crowd ; and in this matter of 
 
 xix 
 
 s 
 
 oos 
 s
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 speech, for reality, for illusion, for making us believe people really did talk 
 like that, Jonson was infinitely more successful than Dickens. His Zeal-of-the- 
 ■ land Busy, in the first acts of " Bartholmew Fayre," is the direct ancestor of 
 Sti^gins in " Pickwick " ; just as in the last act, ^vhen Busy denounces the 
 puppet-shew, he becomes, with his repetitions and involved sentences, the 
 prototype of the Hvde Park orator of the present day. In truth, Jonson 
 contained within himself a threat deal of Dickens, and not a little of Balzac. 
 He had all Dickens's himiour and quick appreciation of the absurd ; and to 
 this he added Balzac's close observation and contempt of sentimentalism. 
 Further, the foolish " vapours " conversation in " Bartholmew Fayre " — a sweet 
 vapoiu", a resolute vapour, a noisome vapour — is an irresistible reminder of the 
 equally foolish conversation at the boarding-house table in " Le Pere 
 Goriot." And if one must dri\'e the comparison home, one may mention that 
 most of Jonson's good \Nomcn, like most of Balzac's, are more or less unreal, 
 and enfirely tedious and unattractive. 
 
 II. 
 
 Jonson, as we have seen, was essentially a comedian — a comedian whose 
 range extended from the broadest farce to the bitterest comedx'. He was nen, 
 however, in h;u\il\- any sense, what is called a "light" comedian; but rather 
 the greatest exponent we have ever had of the comedy of tears, or tragick- 
 comedy. In the foregoing pages we have had glimpses of the plays upon which 
 his reputation chiefly rests — "Volpone," "The Alchemist," "Bartholmew Fayre," 
 "The Silent Woman" — and these are all passionate exposures of the follies and 
 weaknesses of mankinti, full of angr\- and biting satire. And here it will not 
 be amiss to read Fletcher's definition of tragick-comcdv, which he gives in the 
 preface to his "Faithful Shepherdess"; — "A tragick-comedy is not so callcii 
 in respect of mirth and killing, but in respect it wants deaths (which is enough 
 to make it no tragedy): yet brings some near to it (which is enough to make 
 it no comedy) : which must be a representation of familiar people, with such 
 kind of trouble as no life can be without ; so that a god is as lawful in this 
 as in a tragedy ; ami mean people as in a comedy." In this art of ti-agick- 
 comedy, then, Jonson excelled ; while in b'rance, two centuries after Jonson's 
 death, Alfred de Musset brought it to such (lerfection that it makes one 
 pardon the offensiveness of most of his poems. Hut "N'olpone" is every bit 
 
 XX
 
 THK KOXE 
 
 as well constructed aiui as pitiless as " On nc badine pas avec I'aniour " ; and 
 Jonson never leaves us with the impression that Musset sonietiiiies leaves us 
 with — the impression, namely, oi a mere dexterity of hand. Kvery one of" 
 Jonson's great plays is an example of learned skill and labour : we can see the 
 elaborate care with which the scaffolding has been built up — a care so elaborate, 
 indeed, that if one of the joints were withdrawn, the whole structure would be 
 in danger of crashing to the ground. And if we want a cause for tears, not 
 the feminine tears which spring at some sentimental tale, but the despairing 
 tears which " rise in the heart " at certain phases of persecution and injustice, 
 can we not find it everywhere in these comedies ? What could be more 
 merciless than the persecution of Morose by True-wit and his allies in " The 
 Silent Woman " : One can imagine Schopenhauer, who, like Morose, hated 
 all noise, reading that play in a perfect agony of tribulation and sympathy. 
 Jonson, I repeat, rarely preaches : he is not the advertised moralist — in fact it 
 is more than probable that he had no wish to be taken for a moralist ; but 
 his scourge has a sting as of fire in it for all that. In " Bartholmew Fayre," 
 the young squire who has our good wishes throughout the piece, the swash- 
 buckler captain, the thief, and the judge whose only wish is to be righteous, 
 are brought to the same level by the most mordant satire ; and in this play, 
 too, Jonson gathers up his threacis as easily and deftly as the most aggressive 
 pedant in dramatick forms could desire — as easily and deftly, in a word, as he 
 does in " Volpone." 
 
 Upon opening " Volpone " we are at first somewhat repelled when we 
 find that the scene is laid in Venice. We prefer Jonson in England. W^e do 
 not imitate the companions of pious j^ineas,* when we see the land of Italy 
 loom forth from Jonson's pages. But this is only a transient feeling. We 
 soon discover that Folpone, Mosca, Corvino, and the others, are as little affected 
 by \'enice as Captaine Bohadill, or Ursla, the pig-woman. The names are there, 
 but the atmosphere is not. " Romeo and Juliet " is part of an Italian night ; 
 Shylock would possibly be ill-at-ease away from the Rialto ; but the scene of 
 " The Foxe " might as well have been laid in Madrid or Edinburgh, for all the 
 effect that Venice has on the characters. Jonson, a lover of learning, shews by 
 his rather obsequious dedication of this play to the two Universities, that he 
 
 * Italian! primus couclamat Achates ; 
 
 Italiam laeto socii clamore salutant. 
 
 — .-Encitt, Hi. 5-4-5. 
 
 xxi
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 was also a lover of places where learning is held in honour; and as "Volpone" 
 was presented at Oxford and Cambridge before it was brought out in town, he 
 may have thought that he must not offer those two "most equal sisters" any- 
 thing so commonplace as a London street, and English persons. Of course, 
 another reason is that it was a fashion of the time to place the scenes of plavs 
 in Ital\-. What concerns us, however, is that this matter of \^enice does not 
 hiu't the plav in the least ; for Jonson became so interested in his characters 
 and their affairs that he luckilv forgot about what is called local colour. 
 " \'olpone " is, in some respects, the best play that Jonson wrote; and of all 
 the plays he wrote in verse it is certainly the most poetical. He himself 
 seems to have been conscious of this, for in the dedication he calls it a poem, 
 not a comedy. The one fault in the work — if it can properly be called a 
 fault — is that Mosca, the parasite, somewhat overshadows Volpone. The Fox's 
 ruse of feigning coma, and ultimately death, keeps him a little in the back- 
 ground. " There be that can pack the cards, and yet cannot play well," says 
 Bacon in his Essay on Cunning. In this case Volpone packs the cards very 
 adroitly, but Mosca does the playing; and in the nature of things the spectators 
 must see more of the playing than of the secret knavery. But Mosca himself 
 is so admirable a character, so amusing in his villainies, that we caimot have 
 enough of him. He is a type of the confidential servant who becomes 
 indispensable, and presumes upon the (act. As the jilay goes on, his arms grow 
 even closer around Volpone's neck, till at length ihe Fox becomes like Sinbad 
 the sailor when indorsed with the old man of the sea. And when, at tlie end, 
 all the trickery is exposed in the Senate-House, and sentence is pronounced 
 upon the malefactors, could anything be more truly and grandly draniatick, 
 without any touch of melodrama, than Volpone's last sneer- — so in keeping with 
 his character ! — as much at himself as at his judges ^ Jonson is too fine an 
 artist to permit us any reaction of pity : the unfortunate Fox, resolute and 
 daring to the last, is carried off "to lie in prison, crampt with irons," where 
 for many a year he can meditate on his misdeeds, ani.! on that ilay which 
 shall lie the end of all years, when — as he duubtlcss believes — every sin must 
 face the light; ant! we will suppose him murnnn-ing sometimes to his chains: — 
 
 Oiiiil biini, MiisLT, Imic tlicUinis ? 
 (Jueiii patroiiiiin rogaturus, 
 Cuiii vix Justus sit sccunis ? 
 
 xxii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 That Jonsoii, besides being the writer of the extraonliiiary and well- 
 nigh matchless plays which have been considered here, was also a great lyrick 
 poet is unquestionable, and, I think, unquestioned. Who that has read the 
 celebrated "Drink to me only with thine eyes," and the poem which begins 
 " Still to be neat, still to be drest," can doubt it ? Versatility has become 
 a great word in our day, and is often used as though it meant a great thing ; 
 but in Jonson's case we need be at no pains to avoid it. If a man who can 
 pass trom the business of Face and Subtle to the wiles of Volpone, and from 
 Volpone to lines like these : — 
 
 " Do but look on her eyes, they do Hf;ht 
 All that Love's world compriseth ; 
 Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
 As Love's star when it riseth ! 
 Do but mark her forehead, smoother 
 Than words that soothe her! 
 And from her arch'd brow such a grace 
 Sheds itself through the face, 
 As alone there triumphs to the life, 
 All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife ! " 
 
 — if such a man, I say, is not to be called versatile, then no one that ever lived 
 was versatile. Jonson's lyricks will endure till the last leaf is swept from the 
 tree of letters, and poetry lies a dead thing in the sight of men. 
 
 Here, having brought to an end what I have to say of Jonson, let me 
 recapitulate some of the chief grounds upon which he bases — and justly bases 
 — his claim to an honoured immortality : he is then a dramatist in the large 
 sense of the word ; an acute observer and spirited reporter of character and 
 emotion ; a vivid painter of human life and passion ; a great humourist, a 
 great poet, and — it you will — a great novelist. Over the grave of every man 
 whose work has delighted or encouraged us, we are inclined to breathe a kindly 
 Kequiescat ; how urgent, therefore, and how faithful must be our prayer for 
 Jonson ! — that his sleep may be as profound as it is long, and untroubled by 
 those dreams which, as some have fancied, haunt the slumbers of the dead — 
 for Jonson, who has led us by the hand through so many scenes teeming with 
 vivacity and verisimilitude. Of course, I do not assert that he is a writer 
 who can soothe every hour : there are some moods — moods of sorrow and 
 dejection — when a play of his would have the effect of a blow on the face. 
 But when the day grows gray on the windows, and the shadows of evening 
 
 xxiii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 linger on the hearth, when we are tired of the fever and fret of the world, 
 and heartily sick of the arid wastes of latter-day literature, and ot "problems," 
 the solutioti of which would be zero, \\ere thev worth the squalid process of 
 solving, with what relief do we hail the swaggering entrance of Captaine 
 Bobadill^ and hasten to arrange for Lady Would-bee and Win Little-wit the 
 most comfortable chairs in the room ! 
 
 Vincent O'Sullivan. 
 
 February, 1898. 
 
 XXIV
 
 THE EULOGY OF 
 
 AUBREY BEARDSLEY 
 
 AUBREY BEARDSLEY was horn on August 21st, 1872, at Brighton. 
 He was a quiet, reserved child, caring Httle for lessons, though from 
 
 an early age he shewed an aptitude for drawing. He began his 
 education at a Kindergarten. He was seven years old when the first symptoms 
 of delicacy appeared, and he was sent to a preparatory school at Hurst- 
 pierpoint, where he was remarkable for his courage and extreme reserve. 
 Threatened with tuberculosis, he was moved for his health to Epsom in 
 188 1. In March, 1883, his family settled in London, and Beardsley made his 
 first public appearance as an infant musical phenomenon, playing at concerts 
 in company with his sister. He had a great knowledge of music, and always 
 spoke dogmatically on a subject, the only one, he used to say, of which he 
 knew anything. He became attracted at this time by Miss Kate Greenaway's 
 picture books, and started illuminating menus and invitation cards with 
 coloured chalks, making by this means quite considerable sums for a child. 
 
 In August, 1884, he and his sister were sent back to Brighton, where 
 they resided with an old aimt. Their lives were lonely, anci Beardsley 
 developed a taste for reading of a rather serious kind — the histories of 
 Freeman and Greene being his favourite works. He could not remain a 
 student without creating, so he started a history of the Armada. In November 
 of the same year he was sent to the Brighton Grammar School as a day boy, 
 becoming a boarder in January, 1885. He was a great favourite with 
 Mr. King, the house-master, who encouraged his tastes for reading and 
 drawing by giving him the use of a sitting-room and the run of a library. 
 This was one ot the first pieces of luck that attended Beardsley throughout 
 life. The head-master, Mr. Marshall, I am told, would hold him up as an 
 example to the other boys, on account of his industry. His caricatures of the 
 
 XXV d
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 masters were fully appreciated by them, a rare occurrence in the lives of 
 artists. He cultivated besides a talent for acting, and would often perform 
 before large audiences at that Pavilion immortalized by Thackeray and Max 
 Beerbohm. He organized weekly performances at the school, designing and 
 illustrating the programmes. He even wrote a firce called a " Brown Study," 
 which N\as played at Brighton, where it received serious attention from the 
 dramatic critics of the town. He would jiurchase each volume of the Mermaid 
 series of Elizabethan dramatists as it was issued, anci with his sister gave per- 
 formances during the holidays, in a spirit which those masterpieces have never 
 received probably since the days of Shakespeare. From the record of the 
 Brighton College Magazine, Beardsley appears to have taken a leading role in 
 all histrionic fetes, and to " The Pied Piper of Hameln " he contributed some 
 delightful and racy little sketches, the first of his drawings, I believe, that were 
 ever reproduced. 
 
 In Julv, 1888, he left school, and almost immediately entered an 
 architect's office in London. In 1889, he obtained a post in the Guardian Life 
 and Fire Insurance. During the autumn of that year tlie fatal ha^iiorrhages 
 commenced ; for two years he gave up his amateur theatricals and did little in 
 the way of drawing. In 1891, however, he recuperated; a belief in his own 
 powers revived. He now commenced a whole series of illustrations to various 
 plays, such as Marlowe's " Tamerlane," Congreve's " Way of the World," and 
 various French works which he was able to enjoy in the original. He would 
 often speak of the encouragement and kindness he received at this period from 
 the Rev. Alfred (jurnev, who had known his family at Brighton, and who was 
 perhaps the earliest ot his friends to realise that Beardsley possessed something 
 more than mere cleverness or precocity. 
 
 Several people have claimed to discover Aubrey Beardsley, but i think 
 it truer to say that he revealed himself, when proper acknowledgment has been 
 made to Mr. \'aliance, Mr. Pennell, Mr. Frederick F'.vans and Mr. J. M. Dent. 
 Mr. X'allance introduced him to Mr. jnhn I .ane ; and to Mi". I'liukU belongs 
 the credit of introducing Beardsley 's art to the public; but to Mr. j. M. Dent 
 is due the rare distinction of giving him practical encouragement, by com- 
 missioning the " Morte d'Arthur," long before critics had written anything 
 about him, or any but a few fVientis knew of his great powers. Beardsley 
 was too remarkable a jiersonality to remain in obscurity. y\nd I remember 
 
 .\xvi
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 with some amusement hnw the editor of a well-knowi: weekly mocked at 
 a prophecy that the artist was a coming man who would very shortly excite 
 discussion if not admiration. I<'ortunately Mr. Joseph Pennell, a distinguished 
 artist himself, and a fearless critic, not only espoused the cause of the new 
 draughtsman, but became a personal friend tor whom Beardsley always evinced 
 great affection, and to whom he dedicated his album of fifty drawings. 
 
 I shall never forget my first meeting with Aubrey Beardsley, on 
 Februar\- 14th, 1892, at the rooms of Mr. Vallance, the well-known disciple 
 and biographer of William Morris. Though prepared for an extraordinary 
 personality, I never expected the youthful apparition which glided into the 
 room. He was shy, nervous and self-conscious, without any of the intellectual 
 assurance and ease so characteristic of him eighteen months later when his 
 success was unquestioned. He brought a portfolio of his marvellous drawings, 
 in themselves an earnest of genius, but I hardly paid any attention to them at 
 first, so overshadowed were they by the strange and fascinating originality of 
 their author. In two hours it was not hard to discover that Beardsley's 
 appearance did not belie him. He was an intellectual Marcellus suddenly 
 matured. His rather long brown hair, instead of being " ebourifie " as the 
 ordinary genius is expected to wear it, was brushed smoothly and flatly on his 
 head and over part of his immensely high and narrow brow. His face even 
 then was terribly drawn and emaciated. Except in his manner, I do not think 
 his general appearance altered very much in spite of the ill-health and suffering, 
 borne with such imparalleled resignation and fortitude. He had a most 
 delightful and winning smile. He grew less shy after halt-an-hour, becoming 
 gayer and more talkative. He was full of Moliere and " Manon Lescaut " at the 
 time ; he seemed disappointed that none of us was musical ; but he astonished 
 by his knowledge of Balzac an authority on the subject who was also present. 
 He spoke much of the National Gallery and the British Museum, both of 
 which he knew with extraordinary thoroughness. He told me he had only 
 been once to the New Gallery, where he saw some pictures by Burne Jones, 
 but had never been to the Royal Academy. As far as I know, he never 
 visited the spring shows of Burlington House. He always, however, defended 
 that institution with enthusiasm, saying he would rather be an Academician 
 than an artist, "as it takes only one man to make an artist, but forty to make 
 an Academician." 
 
 xxvii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Our next meeting was a few weeks later, when he broueht me a 
 
 replica of his " Joan of Arc." I was anxious to buy the first and better 
 
 ■ version, now in the possession of Mr. Frederick Evans, but he refused to part 
 
 with it at the time. He seemed particularly proud of the drawing ; it was 
 
 the only work of this period he would allow to have any merit. 
 
 In the early summer of 1892, he visited Sir Edward Burne Jones and 
 Mr. George Frederic Watts, receiving from the former artist cordial recognition 
 and excellent advice which proved invaluable to him. He attributed to the 
 same great painter the criticism that " he had learnt too much from the old 
 masters and would benefit by the training ot an art school." A few days 
 afterwards he produced a most amusing caricature of himself being kicked down 
 the stairs of the National Gallery by Raphael, Titian and Mantegna, whilst 
 Michael Angelo dealt a blow on his head with u hammer. This entertaining 
 little record, I am sorry to say, was destroyed. Beardsley was alwavs sensible 
 about friendly and intelligent criticism. When he reached a position enjoyed 
 by no artist of his own age, he was swift to remedy any defect pointed out to 
 him by artists or even by ordinary friends. I never met anyone so receptive 
 on all subjects ; he would record what Mr. Pennell or M. Puvis de Chavannes 
 said in jiraise or blame of a particular drawing with equal candour and good 
 himiour. This was only one ot his many amiable tjualities. When he after- 
 wards became a sort ot household word and his fame, or notoriety, as his 
 enemies called it, was established, he ne\'er changed in this respect. He made 
 friends and remained friends with many for whom his art was totally 
 unintelligible. Social charm triumphed over all differences. He would speak 
 with enthusiasm about writers and artists quite out of symjiath\- with his own 
 aims and aspirations. He never assumed that those to whdni he was introduced 
 either knew or admired his work. 1 lis character was brisk and vn"ile to an 
 extraordinary degree. He made enemies, 1 believe, by refusing to revolve in 
 mutual admiration societies or to support literary and artistic cliques. With 
 the shadow of death alwavs ovei- him and conscious of the brief time before 
 him, he never gave himself up to nmrbid i.ies|iair oi- useless C(im|ilaints. He 
 determined to enjoy life, and, equippeii with all the curiosity and gaiety of 
 boyhood, he caught at life's exquisite moments. I here was always a \'er\- ilecp 
 and sincere religious vein in his temperament, only noticeable to very ultimate 
 friends. Throughout 1H92, those who, like myself, saw Beanisley constantly, 
 
 xxviii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 enjoyed exceptional ;id\';iiit;igcs in studying his character before he was known 
 to the outside work!, being given opportunities which did not recur atter 
 1893, when he became well-known, and in 1894, ^^hen he was almost a lion 
 in London. With all his power ot grasping the essential and absorbing 
 knowledge, he remained charmingly unsophisticated. He took people as they 
 came, never discriminating, perhaps, sufficiently the issues of life. He was 
 unspoiled by success, unbiu'dened with worldly wisdom. He was generous to a 
 fault, spending his money lavishly on his friends to an extent that became 
 almost embarrassing. 
 
 His love and knowledge of books increased rather than diminished 
 even after he devoted himself entirely to art. In early days he would 
 exchange his drawings for illustrated books and critical texts of the English 
 classics with Mr. Frederick Evans, an early and enthusiastic buyer of his work. 
 His tastes were not narrow. Poetry, memoirs, history, short stories, biography, 
 and essays of all kinds appealed to him ; but he cared little for novels, except 
 in French. I don't think he ever read Dickens, Thackeray and George Eliot, 
 though he enjoyed Scott during the last months of his life. He had an early 
 predilection for Lives of the Saints. The scrap-book of sketches, now in my 
 possession, containing drawings done prior to 1892, indicates the range and 
 extent of his taste. There are illustrations to " Manon Lescaut," " Tartarin," 
 "Madame Bovary," Balzac ("Le Cousin Pons," the "Contes Drolatiques"), 
 Racine, Shelley's " Cenci." He retained his love of the drama, and began to 
 write a play in collaboration with Mr. Brandon Thomas. While dominated by 
 pre-Raphaelite influences, he read with great avidity " Sidonia the Sorceress," 
 and " The Shaving of Shagpat," a favourite book of Rossetti's, and it was 
 with a view to illustrate Mr. Meredith's Arabian Night that he became 
 introduced to Mr. John Lane. He read Greek and Latin authors, and often 
 astonished scholars by his acute appreciation of their matter. He approached 
 Dantesque media;valism through Rossetti and, later on, at the original source. 
 Much of his early work illustrated incidents in the "Divine Comedy." He 
 was a fervent admirer of the "Romance of the Rose" in the original, and 
 several mediawal French books, but he once told me that he found the 
 " Morte d'Arthur " very long-winded. 
 
 For one so romantic in the expression of his art, I should say his 
 taste was severely classic, in distinction from bizarre. He was ambitious 
 
 xxix
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 of literary success, but any aspirations were wisely discouraged liy his 
 admirers. His writings shewed a dangerous cleverness, which on cultivation 
 might have proved disastrous to the realization of his true genius. " Under 
 the Hill " is a delightful experiment in a rococo style of literature, and it 
 would be difficult to praise sufficiently the rhythm and metrical adroitness of 
 the two poems in the " Savoy Magazine." Though I cannot speak of his 
 musical attainments, it may be regarded as fortunate that so stupendous a 
 genius was directed to a more permanent form of executive power. 
 
 His knowledge of life, art, and literature seemed the result ot instinct 
 rather than study ; for no one has e\'er discovered where he found the time 
 or opportunity for assimilating all he did. Gregarious and sociable by nature, 
 he was amusingly secretive about his methods and times of work. Like other 
 industrious men, he never pretended to be busy or pressed for time. He 
 never denied his door to callers, nor refused to go anywhere on the plea of 
 " work." 
 
 He disliked anyone being in the room when he was drawing, and hastily 
 hid all his materials if a stranger entered the room. He would rarely exhibit an 
 unfinished sketch, and carefully destroyed any he \\as not thoroughly satisfied 
 with himself. He carried this sensitive spirit of selection and self-criticism 
 rather tar. Calling on friends who possessed primitives, he would destroy these 
 early relics and leave a more mature and approved specimen of his art, or the 
 edition de luxe of some book he had illustrated. Some of us were so annoved 
 that we were eventually obliged to lock up all early examples. For though 
 friends thus \'ictiniised were endowed with a more \'aluable acquisition, they had 
 a natural sentiment and affection for the unsojihisticated designs of his earlier 
 years. 
 
 His life, though many-sided and successful, was outwardly uneventful. 
 In the early summer of 1892 he entered Professor Brown's night school at 
 Westminster, but during the liay continued his work at the Guardian Fire 
 Insurance until August, when, by his sister's advice, he resigned his post. In 
 December he became acquainted with Mr. I'ennell, from whose encouragement 
 and advice he reaped the t'ullest ach'antage. The enterprise of Mr. j. M. Dent 
 had meanwhile made him imlependent of masters or patrons. He commenced 
 the decorations to the " Morte d'Arthur," and ceased to attend Professor 
 Brown's classes. In hebruary, 1893, his drawings were first published in 
 
 XXX
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 London in the " Pall Mall Budget," but one of the most striking of his early 
 designs appeared in an excellent little college magazine entitled " 'riie Bee." 
 When "The Studio" was started under the able editorship of Mr. (jleeson 
 White, Beardslev designed the first cover and Mr. Pennell contributed the 
 well-known appreciation of the new artist. 
 
 Towards the end of 1893 he commenced working tor Mr. John Lane, 
 who issued his marvellous illustrations to "Salome" in 1894. In April of the 
 same year appeared the " Yellow Book." To the first four volumes Beardsley 
 contributed altogether about eighteen illustrations. From a pictorial point of 
 view this publication had no other raison d'etre than as a vehicle for the pro- 
 duction of Beardsley's work, though Mr. Harland, in his capacity as literary 
 editor, revealed the presence of many new writers among us. Throughout 1894 
 Beardsley's health seemed to improve, and his social success was considerable. 
 Li the previous year he had been ridiculed, but now the world accepted 
 him at Mr. Pennell's valuation. The Beardsley type became quite a fashion, 
 and was burlesqued at many of the theatres ; his name and work were 
 on everyone's lips. He made friends with many of his contemporaries dis- 
 tinguished in art and literature. At the house of one of his friends he 
 delivered a very amusing lecture on "Art" which created much discussion. 
 
 A little later Beardsley was popularly supposed to have given pictorial 
 expression to the views and sentiments of a certain school, and his drawings 
 were regarded as the outward artistic sign of inward literary corruption. This 
 is not the place to discuss the invention of a mare's nest ; as someone said, 
 " Beardsley's art was neither epic, epicene nor epigrammatic." He suffered 
 considerably by this premature attempt to classify his art. Fiu-ther efforts to 
 ridicule his work and suppress its publication were, however, among the most 
 cheering failures of modern journalism. In 1895 '^^ ceased to cojitribute to 
 the "Yellow Book." In January, 1896, "The Savoy" was started by 
 Mr. Leonard Smithers, who henceforth purchased and published all Beardsley's 
 subsequent work. Failing health was the only difficulty with which he had 
 to contend in the future. From March, 1896, when he caught a severe chill 
 at Brussels, he became a permanent invalid. He returned to England in May, 
 and in August went to Bournemouth, where he spent the autumn and winter. 
 
 Those who visited him at Bournemouth never expected he would live 
 for more than a few weeks. His courage, however, never failed him, and 
 
 xxxi
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 he continued work even while suffering from lung ha-morrhage ; but he 
 expressed a hope and belief, in which he was justified, that he might be 
 spared one more year. On March 31st, 1897, he was received into the 
 Catholic Church. The fervour and sincerity of his religious convictions can 
 only be realized by those who were with him constantly ; though, as I have 
 suggested before, the flippancy and careless nature of his conversation were 
 entirely superficial : he was alwavs strict in his religious observances. Among 
 his intimate friends through life were clergymen and priests who have already 
 paid tribute to the reality and sincerity of his belief. 
 
 A week after being received, Beardsley rallied again, and moved to 
 Paris, but still required the attention and untiring devotion of his mother, to 
 whom he was deeply attached. He never returned to England again. From time 
 to time he was cheered by visits from Miss Mabel Beardsley, who understood her 
 brother as few sisters have done. For some time he stayed at St. Germain, 
 and in Julv, 1897, he went to Dieppe, where he seemed almost to have 
 recovered. It was only, however, for a short time, and in the end of 1897 
 he was hurried to Mentone. He never left his room after January 25th 
 following. The accounts of him which reached Loncion prepared his friends 
 for the end. Almost one of his last letters was to Mr. Vincent O'Sullivan, 
 the author ot the striking Introduction to " Volpone," congratulating him on his 
 performance. Beardsley had a great knowledge and appreciation of Ben Jonson, 
 and his admirers will experience an added pleasure in the perusal of an Essay 
 Beardsley was the first to see and approve ot. 
 
 On March 23rd, 1898, he received the last sacraments ; and on the 25th, 
 
 with perfect resignation, in the presence ot his mother aiul sister, to whom he had 
 
 confided messages of love and sympathy to his many friends, Aubrey Beardsley 
 
 passed away. 
 
 " Conic back in sleep, for in tlu' life 
 Where thou art not 
 we find none lilic thee. Time and .strife 
 
 And the world's lot 
 Move thee no more: but love at least 
 
 And reverent heart 
 May move thee, loyal and released 
 .Soul, as thou art." 
 
 No one could have wished him to live on in pain ami suffering. I 
 think the only great trials of his life were the periods in wliich he was 
 
 ,\xxii 
 
 I
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 unfitted for work. His remarkable career was not darkened by any struggle 
 for recognition. If few artists are as great as Aubrey Beardsley, few have 
 been so fortunate. His short life was remarkably happy, at all events during 
 the six years he was before the public. Everything he did met with success, 
 a success thoroughly enjoyed by him. He seemed indifferent to the coarse 
 criticism and violent denunciation with which much of his art was hailed. I 
 never heard of anyone of importance who disliked him personally ; on the 
 other hand, many who were hostile and prejudiced about his art ceased to 
 attack him after meeting him. This must have been due to the magnetism 
 and charm of his individuality, exercised quite unconsciously, for he never tried 
 to conciliate people, or "to work the oracle," but rather gloried in shocking 
 " the enemy," a boyish failing for which he may be forgiven. 
 
 He had considerable intellectual vanity, but it never relapsed into simple 
 conceit. He was generous in recognizing the talent and genius of others, but 
 was singularly perverse in some of his utterances. He said once that only four of 
 his contemporaries in art interested him. He bore with extraordinary patience the 
 foolish persons who calmly asserted that both in America and England other 
 artists had anticipated the peculiarities of his style and methods. I have seen 
 the work of these Lambert Simnels and Perkin Warbecks, and they proved, one 
 and all, crows in peacocks' feathers. Beardsley's style, nevertheless, influenced 
 (unfortunately, I think) many excellent artists both younger and older than 
 himself In France his work was accepted without question ; he was always 
 gratified by the cordiality which greeted him in a country where he was more 
 generally understood than in his own. He has illustrious precedents in 
 Constable and Bonnington Italy, Austria and Germany recognized in him a 
 master some time before his death. In England, putting aside the notoriety 
 and sensation caused by his posters and the " Yellow Book," appreciation of 
 his work has been confined rather to the few. He enjoyed, .however, the 
 friendship and intimacy of great numbers of people, shewing that his amiable 
 qualities, no less than his art, received due recognition. His conversation was 
 vehement and witty rather than humorous. He had a remarkable talent for 
 mimicking, very rarely exercised. He loved argument, and supported theories 
 for the sake of argument in the most convincing manner, leaving strangers 
 with a totally wrong impression about himself, a deception to which he was 
 much addicted. He possessed what is called an artificial manner, cultivated to 
 
 xx.xiii e
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 an extent that might be mistaken for affectation. He never could sit still for 
 very long, and he made use of gesture for emphasis. His peculiar gait has 
 been very happily rendered in a portrait of him by Mr. Walter Sickert. 
 For characteristic liknesses, Mr. Rothenstein's pastels and lithographs of him 
 are amazingly faithful ; he also sat to M. Blanche, the well-known French 
 portrait painter. None of the photographs of him conveys any idea of his 
 appearance, and the portraits by himself are tinged with caricature. 
 
 To estimate the art of Aubrey Beardsley is not difficult. That his 
 drawings must excite discussion at all times is only a proof of their lasting 
 worth. They can never be dismissed with unkindly comment, nor shelved into 
 the limbo of art criticism which waits for many blameless and depressing pro- 
 ductions of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Among artists and men of 
 letters no less than with that great inartistic body " the art-loving public " 
 Aubrey Beardsley's name will always call forth wonder, admiration, speculation, 
 and contempt. It should be conceded, however, that his work cannot appeal to 
 everyone ; and that many who have the highest perception of the beautiful 
 saw only the repulsive and unwholesome in the troubled, exotic expression ot 
 his genius. Fortunately, no reputation in art or letters rests on the verdict of 
 majorities — it is the opinion of the exquisite few which finally triumphs. 
 Artists and critics have already dwelt on the beauty of Aubrey Beardsley's 
 line, which in his early work too often resolved itself into mere caligraphy ; 
 but the mature and perfect illustrations to " Salome " and " The Rape of the 
 Lock" shew a mastery inisurpassed by any artist in any age or coimtry. 
 No one ever carried a simple line to its inevitable end with such sureness and 
 firmness of purpose. And this is one of the lessons which even an accomplished 
 draughtsman may learn from his drawings, in any age when scraggy execution 
 masquerades under impressionism. Aubrey Beardsley did not shirk a difficulty by 
 leaving lines to the imagination of critics, \\ho might enlarge on the reticence 
 of his medium. j\rt cant anil studio jargon do not explain his work. 
 Owing to the happy limitation of pen, ink and jiencil, no questions of brush 
 work or other casKS belli need be discussed in regard to him. It is ically 
 only the presence or absence of beauty in his drawing, and his wonderful 
 powers of technicjue which need ti'ouble his admirers or detractors. Nor are we 
 
 x.xxiv
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 confronted with any conjecture as to what Aubrey Beardsley might have done — 
 he has lett a series ot achievements. While his early death has caused deep 
 sorrow among his personal triends, there need be no sorrow for an "inheritor 
 of unhilfilled renown." Old age is no more a necessary complement to the 
 realisation ot genius than premature death. Within six years, after passing 
 through all the imitative stages of probation, he produced masterpieces he 
 might have repeated but never surpassed. His style would have changed. 
 He was too receptive and too restless to acquiesce in a single convention. 
 
 This is hardly the place to dwell on the great strides which black and 
 white art has made in the last twenty years. It has been called the most 
 modern ot the arts ; and, indeed, the most finished drawings of the old 
 masters were done with a view to serve as studies or designs to be transferred 
 to canvas, metal and wood. Vittore Pisano and Gentile Bellini would hardly 
 have dared to frame their delightful studies and offer them as ohjels cfart to 
 the critics ot their day. At all events it were safer to say, that appreciation 
 of a drawing tor itselt, without relation to the book or page it was intended 
 to adorn or destroy, is entirely modern. It is necessary to keep this in mind, 
 because the suitability of Beardsley's work to the books he embellished was 
 often accidental. His designs must be judged independently, as they were 
 conceived, without any view ot interpreting or even illustrating a particular 
 author. He was too subjective to be a mere illustrator. Profoundly interested 
 in literature tor the purposes ot his art, he only extracted trom it whatever 
 was suggestive as pattern ; he never professed to interpret for dull people, 
 unable to understand what they read, any more than the mediaeval illuminator 
 and carver of grotesques attempted to explain the mysteries of the Christian 
 faith on the borders of missals and breviaries of the miserere seats in the 
 choir. His art was, of course, intensely literary^ to use the word hated of 
 modern critics, but his expression of it was the legitimate literature of the 
 artist, not the art peculiar to literature. He did not attempt, or certainly 
 never succeeded in giving, pictorial revision to a work of literature in the 
 sense that Blake has done for the book of Job, and Botticelli for the " Divine 
 Comedy." While hardly satisfying those for whom any work of art guilty of 
 "subject" becomes worthless, this ininuinity from the conventions ot the 
 illustrator will secure for Beardsley a larger share ot esteem among artists pure 
 and simple than has ever t^allen to William Blake, who appeals more to men of 
 
 XXXV
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 letters than to the artist or virtuoso. The uncritical profess to find many 
 terrible meanings in Aubrey Beardsley's drawings ; and he will probably never 
 be freed from the charge of symbolism. Ho\\ever morbid the sentiment in 
 some of his work, and often there was a macabre, an unholy insistence on the 
 less beautiful side of human things,- the cabala of the symbolists was a sealed 
 book to him. Such things were entirely foreign to his lucid and \'igorous 
 intelligence. There is hardly a drawing of his that does not explain itself ; the 
 commentator will search in vain for any hieroglyphic or symbolic intention. 
 The hieratic archaism ot his earh' \\ork misled many people, tor ■\\ horn pre- 
 Raphaelitism means presupposition. Of mysticism, that stumbling-block, he had 
 none at all. " The Initiation of a Neophyte into the Black Art " would seem 
 to contradict such a statement. The fantasy and grotesqueness of that lurid 
 and haunting composition have nothing in common with the childish s\ nibolism 
 of black magic, the follies ot freemasonry, or all the fascinating nonsense to be 
 foiuid in the works of Eliphaz Levi. The sumptuous accessories in \\hicli he 
 revelled had no other than a decorative intention, giving sometimes balance to 
 a drawing, or conveying a literary suggestion necessary for its interpretation. 
 
 Artists are blamed for what they have not tried to do ; f>r for the 
 absence of qualities distinguishing the work of an entii-el\' iliflerent order of 
 intellect ; for their indifTerence to the observations of otliers. As \\ho should 
 ask from Reynolds a faithful reproduction of textile fabrics ; and from Carlo 
 Crivelli the natural phenomena of natin^e we expect from Tin^ner and 
 Constable ? For nature as it should be, in the works of Corot ami Turner ; 
 for nature made easy, in modern English landscape ; for nature without 
 tears, in the impressionist fashion, or as popularly \'ie\\eil tiirmigh the camera, 
 Aubrey Beardsley had no feehng. He was frankly imliflerent to picturesque 
 peasants, the beauties of "lovely spots," eithei- in luiglanil or France. A 
 devout Catholic, the ringing of the Angelus tlid not lure him to present 
 mangel-wurzels in an evening haze. The treatment of nature in the larger 
 and truer sense of the word had little attraction for him ; he nc\er tried, 
 therefore, to represent air, atmosphere and light, as man\' clever moilcrn ai'tists 
 have done in black and white. Claude was the onlv lamlscape painter who 
 really interested him. Beardsley's landscape, therefore, is formal, primitive, 
 conventional ; a breath of air hardly shakes tlie delicate leaves of the straight 
 poplars and willows that grow by his serpentine streams. 'I'he gi-eat clifls, 
 
 XXX vi
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 leaning down in prcinidntories to the sea, have that inircal, architectural 
 appearance so remarkahle in the West of Cornwall, a place he had never 
 visited. Yet his love and observation of flowers, trees and gardens are very 
 striking in the drawings for the " Morte d'Arthur " and the "Savoy" Magazine, 
 but it is the nature of the landscape gardener, not the landscape painter. 
 There is some truth in the half-plavful, half-unfriendly criticism, that his 
 pictures were a form of romantic map-making. Future experts, however, may 
 be trusted to deal with absence ot chiaroscuro, values, tones and the rest. In 
 only one of his drawings, conceived, curiously enough, in the manner of 
 Burne-Jones (an unlikely model), is there anything approaching what is usually 
 termed atmosphere. Eliminating, therefore, all that must not be expected from 
 his art — mere illustration, realism, symbolism and naturalism — in what, may be 
 asked, does his supreme achievement consist .'' He has decorated white sheets 
 of paper as they have never been decorated before ; whether hung on the wall, 
 reproduced in a book, or concealed in a museum, they remain among the most 
 precious and exquisite works of art the nineteenth century can shew, resembling 
 the work of William Blake only in that they must be hated, misunderstood and 
 neglected, ere they are recognized as works of a master. With more simple 
 materials than those employed by the fathers of black and white art, Beardsley 
 has left memorials no less wonderful than the Greek vase-paintings, so highly 
 prized by artists and archaeologists alike, but no less difficult for the uninitiated 
 to appreciate and understand. 
 
 The astonishing fertility of his invention, and the amount of work he 
 managed to produce, were inconceivable ; yet his work never shews any 
 sign of hurry ; there is no scamping in his deft and tidy drawing. The 
 neatness of his most elaborate designs would suggest many sketches worked 
 over and discarded before deciding on the final form and composition. Strange 
 to say, this was not his method. He sketched everything in pencil, at first 
 covering the paper with apparent scrawls, constantly rubbed out and blocked 
 in again, until the whole surface became raddled from pencil, indiarubber, 
 and knife ; over this incoherent surf^Tce he worked in Chinese ink with a 
 gold pen, often ignoring the pencil lines, afterwards carefully remo\'ed. So 
 every drawing w^as invented, built up, and completed on the same sheet of 
 paper. And the same process was repeated even when he produced replicas. 
 At first he was indifl-'erent to process reproduction, but, owing to Mr. Pennell's 
 
 .\xxvii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 influence, he later on always worked with that end in view, perhaps, some 
 will think, thereby losing his independence. But he had nothing to complain of 
 — Mr. Pennell's contention about process was never so well proved as in 
 Beardslev's case. His experiments in colour were not always successful, two 
 of his most delightful designs he ruined by tinting. In the posters and 
 " Studio " lithograph, however, the crude colour is highly effective, and 
 " Mademoiselle de Maupin " shewed he could have mastered water-colour had 
 he chosen to do so. 
 
 A good deal has been made out of Beardsley's love of dark rooms and 
 lamp light, but this has been grossly exaggerated. He had no great faith in 
 north lights and studio paraphernalia, so necessary for those who use mediums 
 other than his own. He would sometimes draw on a perfectly flat table, 
 facing the light, which would fall directly on the paper, the blind slightly 
 lowered. 
 
 The sources of Beardsley's inspiration have led critics into grievous 
 errors. He was accused of imitating artists, some of whose work he had 
 never seen, and of whose names he was ignorant at the time the alleged 
 plagiarism was perpetrated — M. Felicien Rops mav be mentioned as an 
 instance. Beardsley contrived a style long before he came across any modern 
 French illustration. He was innocent of either Salon, the Rosicrucians, and 
 the Royal Academy alike ; but his own influence on the Continent is said to 
 be considerable. That he borrowed freely and from every imaginable master, 
 old and new, is, of course, obvious. Eclectic is certainly applicable to him. 
 But what he took he cndoweti with a fantastic and fascinating originality ; to 
 some image or accessory, familiar to an\'one who has studied the oKl masters, 
 he added the touch of modernity which brings them nearer to us, and reached 
 refinements never thought of by the old masters. Imagination is the great 
 pirate of art, and with Beardsley becomes a pretext for invention. 
 
 Prior to 1891 his drawings are interesting only for their precocity; 
 they may be regarded, as one of his friends has said, more as a presage than 
 a precedent, yet mar\-ellous \slien \()u realise the short intei-val elapsing 
 between their pi-otiuction ami the masterpieces of his matuiMt\'. Flis first 
 enthusiasm was for the work of the Italian primitives, distinguished " for its 
 free and flowing line." Even at a later time, wlien he devoted himself to 
 eighteenth century motiels and ideals, his love of vVndrea Mantegna never 
 
 Nx.wiii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 deserted him. He always kept reproductions from Maiitegna at his side, 
 and dechired that he never ceased to learn secrets from them. In the 
 "Litany of Mary Magdalen" and the two versions of "Joan of Arc" this 
 influence is very marked. A Botticelli phase followed, and, though quickly 
 discarded, was reverted to at a later period. The British Museum and 
 the National Gallery were at first his only schools of art. As a matter of 
 course, Rossetti and Burne-Jones, but chiefly through photographs and prints, 
 succeeded in their turn ; the influence ot Burne-Jones lasting longer than 
 any other. 
 
 Fairly drugged with too much observation of old and modern masters, 
 he entered Professor Brown's art school, where he successfully got rid of 
 much that was superfluous. The three months' training had the most salutary 
 effect on his art. He now took the advice attributed to Sir Edward Burne- 
 Jones, and unlearned much ot his acquired pedantry. The mere penmanship 
 which disfigured some of his early work entirely disappeared. His handling 
 became finer, his drawing less timid. The sketch of Moliere, it may be 
 interesting to note, belongs to this period of his art. 
 
 A few months afterwards, he commenced the " Morte d'Arthur." 
 Suggested and intended to rival the gloomy and expensive volumes of the 
 Kelmscott Press, it is his most popular and least satisfactory production from 
 an artistic point of view. The borders have far more variety and invention 
 than those in which Morris indulged with wearisome iteration ; the intricate 
 splendours of mediaeval borders are more intelligently imitated or adapted, and 
 neither slavishly copied either from Morris or the Middle Ages. The pictures, 
 moreover, have the merit of suiting the borders. The initial- and tail-pieces 
 are delightful in themselves, and among the most exquisite of his grotesques 
 and embellishments. The popularity of the book was due to its lack of 
 originality, not to its individuality. Media;valism for the middle classes always 
 ensures an appreciative audience. That Morris was annoyed by the sincerest 
 form of flattery can only be explained by Beardsley's superiority at figure 
 drawing and the versatility he showed on every border, while his decoration of 
 the page was more plausible than any Hammersmith effort. Beardsley came 
 to realize afterwards that Mr. Walter Crane was a more intelligent guide 
 and more truly reminiscent of the great book decorators than ever Morris 
 could be. 
 
 xxxix
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 The " Mortc d' Arthur " may be said, for convenience, to close Aubrey 
 Beardsley's first period ; but he modified his style during the progress of the 
 puMication, and there is no unity of intention in his types or scheme of 
 decoration. He was gravitating Japanwards. He began, however, his so-called 
 Japanesques long before seeing any real Japanese art, except what may be 
 found in the London shop windows on cheap trays or biscuit-boxes. He 
 never thought seriouslv of borrowing from this source until some one not 
 conversant with Oriental art insisted on the resemblance of his drawings to 
 Kakemonos. It was quite accidental. Beardsley was really studying with great 
 care and attention the Crivellis in the National Gallery ; their superficial 
 resemblance to Japanese work occasioned an error from which Beardsley, quick 
 to assimilate ideas and modes of expression, took a suggestion, unconsciously 
 and ignorantly offered, and studied genuine examples. " Raphael Sanzio " (first 
 version) was produced prior to this incident, and " Madame Cigale's Birthday 
 Party" immediately afterwards. His emulation ot the Japanese never lett him 
 until the production of the "Savoy" Magazine. This was the only bad artistic 
 influence which ever threatened to endanger his originality, or permanently 
 vitiate his style. The free use of Chinese ink, together with his intellectual 
 vitality, saved him from "succumbing to Japan," to use Mr. Pennell's excellent 
 phrase. 
 
 A series of grotesques to decorate some rather silly anthologies pro- 
 duced in the same year as the " Morte d'Arthur " are mar\'els of ingenuity, 
 and far more characteristic of the artist. With them he began a new period, 
 throwing over the deliberate archaism and mei.lia;valism, of which he began to 
 tire. In the illustrations to " Salome," he reached the consummation ot the 
 new conventiori he created tor himself. Japanese art henceforth ilonnnated him 
 for some time, and Burne-Jones is the only old influence that clings. Before 
 commencing "Salome" two events conti'ibuted to give Beardsley a fresh 
 impetus and stimulate his method of expression : a series of visits to the 
 collection of (ireek vases in the British Museum (jirompted by an essay of 
 Mr. I). S. McColI), and to the fuuous Peacock Room of Mr. Whistler, in 
 Prince's Gate— one the antithesis of Japan, the other of Burne-Jones. Im- 
 pressionable at all times to novel sensations, his artistic perceptions vibrated 
 with a new and inspired enthusiasm. Critical appreciation iiiuicr his pen meant 
 creation. l-'rom the Cireek vase painting he learned thai drapery can be 
 
 xl
 
 THE KOXE 
 
 rcpi'csciitcd L-ftcctiKilK' with ;i tew lines, ilisposcd with ecoiioin\', not by a 
 lumilxT tif imhnishL-d scratches and su|XTtiU()US shading. If the " Salume " 
 drawings ha\e am' taidt at all, it is that the texture of the pictures suggests 
 some other iiiediLini than pen and ink, as Mr. Walter Crane has pointed out 
 in his other work. They are wrought rather than drawn, and might be 
 designs tor the panel ot a cabinet, tor Limoges or oriental enamel. " The 
 Rape ot the Lock" is, therefore, a more satisfactory exam|ile of black and 
 white art. Beardsley's second period lasted until the fourth volume of the 
 "Yellow Book," in which the " Wagnerites " should be mentioneil as one of the 
 finest. Li 1896, at the suggestion of Mr. Smithers and other friends, he 
 turned his attention to the eighteenth century, in the literature of which he 
 was always deeply interested. Eisen, Moreau, Watteau, Cochin, Pietro 
 Longhi, now became his masters. The alien art of ^\^lgner often supplied 
 the theme and subject. The level of excellence sustained throughout the 
 " Savoy " Magazine is extraordinary', in view of the terrible state of his 
 health. His unexampled precision of line never falters ; and while his com- 
 position gains in simplicity, his capacity for detail has not fiagged. It is, 
 perhaps, an accident that in his most pathetic drawing, " The 13eath of 
 Pierrot," his hand seems momentarily to have lost its cunning. The same 
 year he gave us "The Rape of the Lock," deservedly regarded by artists as 
 the consummation of his genius ; and an even more astonishing set of 
 drawings to the " Lysistrata " of Aristophanes. Ihey are grander than the 
 " Rape ot the Lock," and larger in treatment than anything he ever 
 attempted. Privately issueci, Beardsley was able to give full rein to a 
 Rabelaisian fantasy, which he sometimes cultivated with too great persistence. 
 Irritated by what he considered as over-niceness in some of his critics, he seemed 
 determined to frighten his public. There is nothing unwholesome or suggestive 
 about the " Lysistrata " designs : they are as frank, free, and outspoken as the 
 text. Lor the countrymen of Chaucer to simulate indignation about them can 
 only be explained " because things seen are greater than things heard." A 
 real artist, Beardsley has not burdened himself with chronology or archaeology. 
 Conceived somewhat in the spirit of the eighteenth century, the pei'iod of 
 gracefid indecency, there is here, however, an Olympian air, a statuescjue beauty, 
 only comparable to the classical antique. The illusion is enhanced by the absence 
 of all background, giving an added toucli of severity to the compositions. 
 
 xli /
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Eighteen hundred and ninetv-six was vci-itahl\' an lOniiis mirabilis even 
 for Aubrey Beardsley. 1 he general tendency ot' his style remains unitorni, 
 though without sameness. He adapted his technique to the requirements of 
 his subject. Always mindlul ot the essential, rejecting the needless, he now 
 realised his genius ; and it would be impossible to believe he could have 
 surpassed the work ot 1896 but tor the fragments of " Volpone." h'roni the 
 infinite variety ot the "Savoy" Magazine it is difficult to choose any of 
 particular importance : tor his elaborate manner, the first plate to " L'nder the 
 Hill " ; and in a simpler style, the fascinating illustration to his own poem, 
 " I'he Barber"; "Ave Atque Vale" and "The Death of Pierrot" have, 
 besides, a human interest over and above any artistic quality they possess. 
 For the " \'olpone " Beardsley again developed his style, and sought tor new 
 effects ; he discarded pen and ink. The ornate, delicate initial letters, all he 
 li\ed to finish, must be seen in the originals before their simiptiious qualities, 
 their solemn melancholy dignity, their dexterous handling, can be appreciated. 
 The use ot a camel's-hair brush tor the illustrations to " Mademoiselle cie 
 Maupin," one ot his last works, shoidil be noted, as he so rarely used it- 
 Beardsley's invention never failed him, so that it is almost impossible to take 
 a single drawing, or set i.A drawings, as typical ot his art. Each design is 
 rather a type ot his own intellectual mood. 
 
 It the history ot grotesque remains to be written, it is alread\' illustrated 
 by his art. A subject little understood, it belongs to the dim ways ot 
 criticism. I here is no canon or school, and the artist is allowed to be wiltul, 
 untrammelled by rule or precedent. True grotesque is not the art either of 
 primitives or decadents, but that of skilled and accomplisheti workmen who 
 have reached the zenith ot a [X'culiar coiu'ention, howes'er confined ami limited 
 that convention may be. Byzantine art, one of our links with the East, should 
 some day furnish us with a key to a m\'stery which is now obscured by 
 symbolists and stutlents of serpent worship. The (ireeks, with their supreme 
 sanity and unrivalled plastic sense, afford us no real examples, though their 
 archaic art is often pressed into the category. Beardsley, who received 
 recognition tor this side of his genius, enqihasised the grotesque to an extent 
 that precludecl any popularity among |-ieople who care only toi- the trivial and 
 " pretty." In him it was allieil to a mordant lumiour, a certain tescennine 
 abstraction, offensive to many ; this, h(nvever, does not excuse the use ot the 
 
 .\lii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 word eccentric, wliicli, with " gr(itesi|ue " ;ind "picturesque," is more misapplied 
 than any word in the I'.nglish language. All great art is eccentric to the 
 herd. I'he decoration on the Partlienon was so eccentric that I'lieidias was 
 put in prison. The work ot Mr. Whistler and Sir Edward Burne-Jones, once 
 derided as eccentric, is now accepteci as classic. And wherever a verdict is 
 solicited troni the inieducated, all new art will be dubbed eccentric, trampled 
 on and despised ; even as the first tidip that blossomed in England was rooted 
 out and burnt tor a worthless weed by the conscientious Scotch gardener. 
 
 To compare Beardsley with anv of his contemporaries would be inijust 
 to them and to him. He belonged to no school, and can leave no legend, in 
 the sense that Rossetti, Mr. Whistler, and Professor Legros have done ; he 
 proclaimed no theory ; he left no counsel of perfection to those who came after 
 him. In England and America a horde of depressing disciples aped his 
 manner with a singular want of success ; while admirable and painstaking 
 artists modified their own convictions in the cause of unpopularity with fatal 
 results. The sensuous charm of Beardsley's imagination and his mode of 
 expression have only a superficial resemblance to the foreign masters of black 
 and white. He continued no great tradition of the sixties ; has nothing in 
 common with the inventive genius of Mr. Charles Ricketts and his followers ; 
 nothing of the pictorial propriety that distinguishes the work of his friend, 
 Mr. Pennell, or the homogeneous congruity of Boyd Houghton, Charles Keeiie, 
 and Mr. Frederic Sandys. He made use of different styles where other men 
 employed different mediums. Unperplexed by painting or etching or lithography, 
 he was satisfied with the simplest of all materials, attaining therewith un- 
 approachable executive power. Those who cavil at his flawless technique 
 ignore the specific quality of drawing characterising every great artist. The 
 grammar of art exists only to be violated. Its rules can be learnt by 
 anyone. Those who have no artistic perception invariably find faidt with the 
 perspective. A great artist has, however, pointed out to the present writer 
 weaknesses in the extremities of Beardsley's figures — the hands and feet being 
 interruptions rather than continuations of the limbs. Occasional carelessness in 
 this respect is certainly noticeable, and the structure of his figures is throughout 
 capricious. It was no fault in his early work ; the hands and feet in the 
 " Joan of Arc," if crude and exaggerated, being carefully modelled. While 
 the right hand of " Salome," grasping the head of the Baptist, is perfectly 
 
 xliii
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 drawn, the left is feeble, when examined closely. For sheer drawing nothing 
 can equal the nude figure in the colophon to " Salome." The outstretched, 
 quivering hands of Ali Baba are intentionally rendered larger than proportion 
 allows, to render dramatic expression, not reality. For the purpose ot efiect 
 he adapted proportions, realising that jierfect congruity and reality are irre- 
 concilable. None of the figures in the dramatic "Battle ot Beaux and Belles 
 could sit on the fallen chair in the foreground. 
 
 There is no need to disturb ourselves with hopes and fears for the 
 estimation with which posterity will cherish his niemorv ; art history cannot 
 afford to overlook him ; it could hardly resist the pretext of moralizing, 
 expatiating and explaining away so considerable a factor in the book illustration 
 ot the nineties. As a mere comment on the admirations ot twenty years, 
 Beardslev is invaluable ; he sums up all the delightful manias, all that is best 
 in modern appreciation — Greek vases, Italian primitives, the " Hypnerotomachia," 
 Chinese porcelain, Japanese Kakemonos, Renaissance friezes, old F'rench and 
 English furniture, rare enamels, media'val illumination, the debonnaire masters 
 ot the eighteenth century, the English pre-Raphaelites. There are difierences 
 of kind in aesthetic beauty, and for Beardsley it was the marriage of arabesque 
 to figures and objects comely or fantastic, or in themselves ugly. I'or hithei'to 
 the true arabesque abhorred the graven image made of artists' hands. To 
 future tlraughtsmen he will have something of the value of an old master, 
 studied for that fastidious technique which ignorant critics believed to be a 
 trick ; and collectors of his work may live to be rallied for their taste ; but 
 the wheat and the chaff contrive to exist together through the centuries. 
 
 A passing reference should be made to the Beardsley of |io|nilar tlelusion. 
 A student ot Callot and 1 logarth, he took suggestions from the age in which 
 he lived and from the literature ot J'.nglish ami iM-ench contemjioraries, Init 
 with no implicit accejitance of the tenets of any groups oi- schools which flutter 
 the tlove-cots of l^'leet Street. 1 le stooi.1 apart, inde[iendent of the shibboleths 
 ot art anil literature, with the grim and sometimes mocking attention of a 
 pectator. lie revealed rather than ci'eateii a feminine type, ot^'eriiiL!; no solution 
 for the jiroblenis of i'ro\idence. The strange, the true and the beautiful are 
 ri|ually revolting to the multitude. 
 
 .Apiilying the e|iitliet "original" to an art so intenseh' reminiscent, so 
 geniously retrospective, might seem paradoxical to those unacquainted with 
 
 s 
 
 111 
 
 .\liv
 
 THE FOXF. 
 
 Beardslcv's more elegant acliie\'enients. I lis is not the originality of Corot and 
 Whistler, \\ith a new inter|iretation ot nature, another sehenie ot ai't ami 
 decoration, hut leather the seholai-lv originality of Raphael — a scholai-shi]i 
 grounded on a thousand traditions and yet striking an entirely new note in 
 art. In his imagination, his choice of motif, his love for inanimate nature, his 
 sentiment for accessory, — rejected Ii\' many modern artists, still so necessary to 
 the modern temper, — his curious type which quite overshadowed that of the 
 pre-Raphaelites, the singular technical cpialities at his command, Beardsley has 
 no predecessors, no rivals. Who has ever managed to suggest such colon i- in 
 masses of black deftly composed .'' Reference to the text is unnecessary to 
 learn that the hair of Herodias was purple. His style was mobile, dominating or 
 subordinate to the subject, as his genius dictated. He twisted human forms, 
 some will think, into fantastic peculiar shapes, becoming more than romantic 
 — antinomian. He cioes not appeal to experience but to expression. The trancjuil 
 trivialities ot what is usually understood by the illustration of books had no 
 meaning for him ; and before any attempt is made to discriminate and interpret 
 the spirit, the poetical sequence, the literary inspiration which undoubtedly 
 existed throughout his work, side by side with technical experiments, his 
 exemption from the parallels of criticism must be remembere(.l diily. 
 
 Robert Ross. 
 
 xlv g
 
 VoLPONE ; OR, The Foxe.
 
 4 
 
 I 
 
 i
 
 TO THE 
 MOST NOBLE AND MOST EQUALL SISTERS, 
 
 THE TWO FAMOUS UNIVERSITIES, 
 
 FOR THEIR 
 
 LOVE AND ACCEPTANCE SHEw'n TO HIS POEME 
 
 IN THE PRESENTATION : 
 
 BEN: lONSON, 
 
 THE GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGER, 
 DEDICATES DOTH IT, AND HIMSELFE. 
 
 There followcs an Epistle, if you dare venture on the length.
 
 4 
 
 I
 
 THE EPISTLE 
 
 N1''A'ER {most aequall Sisters) had any man a wit so presently excellent, 
 as that it could raise it selfe ; but there must come both Matter, 
 Occasion, Commenders, and Favourers to it. If this be true, and that 
 the fortune of all Writers doth daily prove it, it behoves the carelull to provide, 
 well, toward these accidents ; and, having acquir'd them, to preserve that part 
 ot reputation most tenderly, wherein the benefit ot a Friend is also defended. 
 
 Hence is it, that I now render myselte gratetull, and am studious to 
 justifie the bounty ot your act : To which, though your mere authority were 
 satistving, yet, it being an age, wherein Poetry and the Professors of it heare 
 so ill, on all sides, there will a reason bee look'd tor in the subject. It is 
 certaine, (nor can it with any forehead be oppos'd) that the too-much license 
 ot Poetasters, in this time, hath much deform'd their Mistresse ; that, every 
 day their manifold, and manifest ignorance doth stick unnatural reproches upon 
 her : But for their petulancy, it were an act of the greatest injustice, either 
 to let the learned suffer ; or so divine a skill (which indeed should not be 
 attempted with uncleane hands) to fall, under the least contempt. For if men 
 will impartially, and not a-squint, looke toward the offices, and functions of 
 a Poet, they will easily conclude to themselves, the impossibility of any mans 
 being the good Poet, without first being a good Alivi. He that is sayd to be 
 able to informe young-men to all good disciplines, inflame growne men to all 
 great vertues, keepe old men in their best or supreme state, or as they decline 
 to child-hood, recover them to their first strength ; that comes forth the 
 Interpreter, and Arbiter of Nature, a Teacher of things divine, no less than 
 humane, a Master in manners ; and can alone (or with a few) effect the 
 business of Man-kind. This, I take him, is no subject for Pride, and 
 Ignorance to exercise their railing rlietorique upon. 
 
 But, it will here be hastily answer'd, that the -ivritcrs of these days are 
 other things ; that, not onely their manners, but their natures are inverted ;
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 and nothing remaining with them ot the dignity of Poet, but the abused name, 
 which every Scribe usurpes : that now, especially in Dramatick, or (as they 
 term it) Stage-Pof/rv, nothing but Ribaldry, Profanation, Blasphemy, all License 
 of offence to God and Man, is practisd. I dare not deny a great part of this 
 (and am sorry, I dare not) because in some mens abortive features (and would 
 they had never boasted the light) it is over-true : But, that all are embarqu'd 
 in this bold adventure tor Hell, is a most uncharitable thought, and, uttered, 
 a more malicious slander. For my particular, I can (and from a nu)St cleare 
 conscience) affirme that I have ever trembled to thiiike toward the least 
 Prophanenesse ; have loathed the use of such foule, and un-washed Baudr'y, as 
 is now made the foode of the Scene : And, howsoever I cannot escape, 
 from some, the imputation of sharpnesse, but that they will say, I have 
 taken a pride or lust to be bitter, anci not my yongest Infant but 
 hath come into the world with all his teeth ; I would aske of these super- 
 cilious Poliliques, what Nation, Society, or generall Order, or State I have 
 provokd ? What publique Person? Whether I have not (in all these) preserv'd 
 their dignity, as mine owne person, safe? My Worres are read, allow'd, (I speake 
 of those that are iiitirely mine) looke into them, what broad reproofes have I usd. 
 Where have I bin particular? where personall, except to a Mimick, Cheater, Baud or 
 Buffon, creatures (for their insolencies) worthy to be tax'd ? or to which of these so 
 pointingly, as he might not, either ingeniously have confest, or wisely dissembled 
 his disease ? But it is not Rumour can make me guilty, much less entitle me, to 
 other mens crimes. I know, that nothing can be so innocently writ, or carried, but 
 may be made obnoxious to construction ; mary, whilst I beare mine innocence 
 about me, I feare it not. Ap[ilicati<)n, is now, growne a Trade with many, and there 
 are, that professe to have a Key for the deciphering of every thing, but let wise and 
 noble Persons take heed how they bee too credulous, or give leave to these 
 invading Interpreters to be over-familiar with their fames, who cunningly ^ 
 often, utter their owne virulent malice, under other mens simplest meanings. 
 As for those, that will, (by faults which charity hath rak'd up, or common honesty 
 conceal'd) make themselves a name with the Multitude, or (to drawe their rude, 
 and beastly clappes) care not whose living faces they intrench with their 
 petulant stiles ; may they doe it, without a rivall, tor me : 1 chuse rather to 
 live grac'd in obscuritie, than share with them, in so preposterous a fame. 
 Nor can I blame the wishes of those grave, and wiser Patrioles, who,
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 providing the hurts these licentious spirits may do in a State, desire rather to 
 see Kooles and Divells, and those antique reliqucs of Barbarisme retriv'd, 
 with all other ridiculous, and exploded follies : than behold the wounds of 
 Private men, of Princes, and Nations. For as Horace makes Trebatius 
 speake, in these. 
 
 Sibi qttisque timet ^ quanquam est intactits, et odit. And men may justly 
 impute such rages, if continu'd, to the Writer^ as his Sports. The encrease of 
 which lust in liberty, together with present trade of the Stage, in all their 
 misc'line Enterlitdes^ what learned or liberall soule doth not already abhor ? 
 Where nothing but the garbage of the time is utter'd, tf? that with such 
 impropriety of phrase, such plenty of soloecismes, such dearth of sense, so bold 
 prolepses, so rackt metaphors, with brothelry able to violate the eare of a Pagan, 
 and blasphemy, to turne the bloud of a Christian to water. I cannot but 
 be serious in a cause of this nature, wherein my fame, and the reputations of 
 diverse honest, and learned are the question ; when a Name, so full of authority, 
 antiquity, and all great marke, is (through their insolence) become the lowest 
 scorne of the Age : And those Men subject to the petulancie of every vernaculous 
 orator, that were wont to be the care of Kings, and happiest Monarchs. This 
 it is that hath not onely rap't mee to present indignation, but made mee studious, 
 heretofore, and by all my actions, to stand ofF, from them ; which mav most 
 appeare in this my latest Worke (which you, most learned Arbitresses, have 
 seene, judg'd and to my crowne approv'd) wherein I have labour'd, for their 
 instruction, and amendment, to reduce, not only the ancient formes, but 
 manners of the Scene, the easiness, the propriety, the innocence, and last the 
 doctrine, which is the principall end of Poesy to informe men, in the best reason 
 of living. And though my Catastrophe may, in the strict rigour of Comic k Law, 
 meete with censure, as turning back to my promise ; I desire the learned, and 
 charitable critick to have so much faith in me, to think it was done off 
 industrye. For with what ease I could have varied it, nearer his scah' (but that 
 I fear to boast my owne faculty) 1 could here insert. But my special aim 
 being to put the snafle in their mouths, that crie out, we never punish vice 
 in our Enterludes &c. I tooke the more liberty ; though not without some lines 
 of example drawne even in the ylntients themselves, the goings out of whose 
 Comoedies are not always joyiuU, but oftimes, the Baudes, the Servants, the 
 Ri vails, yea and the maisters are mulcted : and fitly, it being the office of a 
 
 7
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 C6w;V^'-poet to imitate justice and instruct to life, as well as puritie of language, 
 or stirre up gentle affections. To which, upon my next opportunity toward 
 the examining is" digesting of my noWs, I shall speake more wealthily, and 
 pay the World a debt. 
 
 In the meanetime (mosl reverenced Sisters) as I have car'd to he thankful! 
 for your affections past, and here made the understanding acquainted with some 
 ground of your favors ; let me not dispayre their continuance, to the maturing of 
 some Worthier fruits, wherein, if my Muses bee true to me, I shall raise the 
 dispis'd head of Poetry againe, and stripping her out of those rotten and 
 base ragges, wherewhich the Times have adulterated her forme, restore her to 
 her primitive habite, feature and majesty, a!id render her worthy to be imbraced, 
 and kist, of all the great and Maister spirits of our World. As for the vile, 
 and slothfull, who never affected an act, worthy of celebration, or are so inward 
 with their owne vicious natures, as they worthely feare her ; and thinke it a 
 high point of policie to keepe her in contempt with their declamatory and 
 windy invectives : Shee shall, out of just rage, incite her Servants (who are 
 Genus irritabile') to spout inke in their faces that shall eate farcier than their 
 marrow, into their fames; and not Cinnamus the Barber, with his art, shall be 
 able to take out the brands, but they shall live, and be read, till the Wretches 
 die, as Things worst deserving of themselves in chiefe, and then of all mankind. 
 
 From my house in the Black-Friars this II. of bVbruary. 1607.
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 AD UTRAMOUE ACADEMIAM, 
 
 De Beniamin Ionsonio 
 
 Hie 'die est primus^ qui doctuni drama Britannis, 
 Graiorum antiqua^ et Lath monimenta Theatric 
 Tanqiiam explorator versans^ foelicibus a/isis 
 Prebebit : magnis ceplis Genii iia astra favete 
 Alterutrd veteres contenti laude : Cothurnuni hie, 
 Atque pari soccum tracbat Sol scenicus arte ; 
 Das VoLPONE ioeos, fletiis Seiane dedisti. 
 At si loNsoNiAS mulctatas limite Mrs as 
 Angus t a plangent quiquam : Vos, dicite, eontru, 
 O nimiuni miseros qnihus Anglis Anglica lingua 
 Aut >ioH sat nota est ,• aut que is (seu trans mare natis ) 
 Haud nota omnino : Vegetet eum tempore Vates, 
 Mutabit patriam, fietque ipse Anglus Apollo. 
 
 E. B.
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Amicissimo, if? Meritissimo 
 Ben: Ionson. 
 
 Quod arte ausus es hie tiid, Poeta, 
 Si auderent hominum Deique iiiris 
 Consulti, veteres sequi aemularierque, 
 O omnes saperemus ad salutem. 
 His sed sunt veteres aranensi ; 
 Tarn nemo veterum est sequutor^ ut In 
 Illos quod sequeris novator audis. 
 Fac tamen quod agis ; tuique prima. 
 Libri Canitie induantnr hord : 
 Nam cartis pueritia est negandu, 
 Nascanturque senes, oportet, illi 
 Ijhri, queis dare vis perennitatem. 
 Priseis, ingenium faeit, laborque 
 Te pareni ; hos superes, ut i£ futiiros. 
 Ex nostra vitiositate fumas, 
 dud priseos superamus, ifi futuros. 
 
 I. J).
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 To Diy friend Mr. Ion son. 
 
 Epigramme. 
 
 lonson, to tell the world what I to thee 
 
 Am, 'tis Friend. Not to praise, nor usher forth 
 
 Thee, or thy Worke, as if it needed mee. 
 
 Send I these ri'mes to adde ought to thy worth, 
 
 So should I flatter my selfe, and not thine ; 
 
 For there were truth on thy side, none on mine. 
 
 To the Reader. Upon the IVorke. 
 
 It thou dars't bite this Foxe, then read my ri'mes ; 
 Thou guilty art of some of these foule crimes : 
 Which, else, are neyther his, nor thine, but Times. 
 
 If thou dost like it, well ; it will imply 
 Thou lik'st with judgment, or best company : 
 And hee, that doth not so, doth yet enine. 
 
 The auntieul formes reduc'd, as in this age 
 The vices, are ; and bare-fac'd on the stage : 
 So boyes were taught t' abhorre seene dronkards rage. 
 
 T. R. 
 
 II
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 To wv deare friend, .\Ir. Beiiia- 
 miii lonso)!, upon his FoxE. 
 
 If it might stand %cith lustice, to allo-zv 
 
 The szuift conversion of all follies ; noza, 
 
 Such is my Mercy, that I could admit 
 
 All sorts should equally approve the wit. 
 
 Of this thy even zvorke : zvhose grozving fame. 
 
 Shall raise thee high, and thou it, zvith thy Name. 
 
 And did not Manners ; and my Love command 
 
 Mee to forbeare to make those understand. 
 
 Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy zviser doome. 
 
 Long since, firmely resolv d shall never come 
 
 To know more than they do ; I would have showne 
 
 To all the world, the Art, which thou alone 
 
 Hast taught our tongue, the rules of Time, of Place, 
 
 And other Kites, deliver d zvith the grace 
 
 Of Coniick stile, zvhich onelv, is farre more. 
 
 Than an\' English Stage hath knozvne before. 
 
 But since our subtle Gallants thinke it good 
 
 To like of nought, that may be understood. 
 
 Least they should be disprov'd; or have, at best. 
 
 Stomachs so raiv, that nothing can digest 
 
 But zvhat's obscene, or barkes : Let us desiir 
 
 They mav continue, simplie, to admire 
 
 Fine Clothes, and strange words ; and may live, in age. 
 
 To see themselves ill-brought upon the Stage, 
 
 And like it. Whilst thy bold, and knowing Muse 
 
 Contemik's all praise, but such as thou zoouldst chusc. 
 
 V. H. 
 
 12
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 To my good friend. Air. lonson. 
 
 The strange new follies ot this idle age, 
 In strange new tornies, presented on the Stage 
 By thy quick Muse, so pleas'd iudicious eyes ; 
 That th' once-admired antient Conioedies 
 P'ashions, like clothes growne out of fashion, lay 
 Lock'd up from use : untill thy Koxe birth-day, 
 In an old garbe, shew'd so much art, and wit, 
 As they the laurell gave to thee, and it. 
 
 D. D. 
 
 To the ingenious Poet. 
 
 The FoxE that eas'd thee of thy modest feares, 
 
 And earth'd himselte, alive, into our eares. 
 
 Will so, in death, commend his worth, and thee 
 
 As neyther can, by praises, mended bee : 
 
 Tis friendly folly, thou maist thanke, and blame. 
 
 To praise a booke, whose forehead beares thy Name. 
 
 Then loNsoN onely this (among the rest) 
 
 I, ever, have observ'd, thy last work's best : 
 
 Pase, gently on ; thy worth, yet higher, raise ; 
 
 Till thou write best, as well as the best Plaves 
 
 I. C. 
 
 13
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 To his deare Friend, Benianiin lonson. 
 
 his 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Come, yet, 7nore forth, Volpone, cduI thy chase 
 
 Performe to al length, for thy breath -ivil serve thee; 
 The Usurer slial, never, weare thy case : 
 
 Men do not hunt to kill, hut to preserve thee. 
 Before the best houndes, thou dost, still, but play ; 
 
 yl>id, for our -ivhelpes, alasse, they yelp in vaine : 
 Thou hast no earth ; thou hunf st the Milkc-whiteway ; 
 
 And, through tli Elisian feilds, dost make thy traine. 
 And as the 'Sytnbole of lifes Guard, the Yiare, 
 
 That, sleeping, ivakes ; and for her feare -luas saf't. 
 So, thou shall be advanced, and make a starre, 
 
 Pole to all zvitts, beleev'd in, for thy craft. 
 In which the Scenes, both Marke, and Mystery 
 
 Is hit, and sounded, to please best, and ivorst ; 
 To all which, since thou mak'st so sweete a cry. 
 
 Take all thy best fare, and be nothing curst. 
 
 G. C. 
 
 14
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Jo my luorthily-esleemed Mr. Bcii lonson. 
 
 VOLPONE now is dead indeed, and lies 
 
 Exposed to the censure of all eies, 
 
 And mouth's ; now he hath run his traine, and shovv'n 
 His subtil! body, where he best was knowne ; 
 
 In both Minerva s Cittyes : he doth yeeld 
 
 His well-form'd-limbs upon this open field. 
 Who, it they now appeare so faire in fight. 
 How did they, when they were endew'd with spright 
 
 Of Action ? Yet in thy praise let this be read. 
 
 The FoxE will live, when all his hounds be dead. 
 
 E. S. 
 
 Jo the true M'- i>i his 
 Art, B. lonson. 
 
 Forgive thy friends ; they would, hut cannot praise 
 
 Inough' the wit, art, language of thy Playes : 
 Forgive thy foes ; they will not praise thee. Why ? 
 
 Thy fate hath thought it hest, they should envy. 
 Faith for thy Foxes sake, forgive then those 
 
 Who are not worthy to be friends, nor foes. 
 Or, for their owne brave sake, let them be still 
 
 Fooles at thy mercy, and like what they will. 
 
 I. F 
 
 15
 
 The Persons of 
 the Comoedye 
 
 VOLPONE, a Magnifico. 
 MOSCA, Ills Parasite. 
 VOLTORK, an Advocate. 
 CORBACCIO, an olde Gentleman. 
 CORVINO, a Merchant. 
 AVOCATORI, 4 Magistrates. 
 NOTARIO, the Register. 
 NANO, a Dwarfe. 
 CASTRONE, an Eunuch. 
 
 grp:ge. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE, 
 
 a Knight. 
 peregrine, a Gent-Travailer. 
 BONARIO, a Tong Gentleman. 
 FINE MADAME WOULD-BI-'.E, 
 
 the Knight's If'ife. 
 CELIA, the Merchant's JFife. 
 COMMANDADORI, Officers. 
 MERCATORI, t, Merchants. 
 ANDROGYNO, a Ilermaphroduc. 
 SERVITORE, a Servant. 
 WOMEN 2.
 
 THE ARGUMENT 
 
 OLPONE,child- 
 
 Icssc, rich, 
 hiincs sick, 
 dfspai res, 
 
 O ffc r s his 
 state to hopes 
 of several! 
 heyres, 
 
 1 , ics laiiguish- 
 i II g ; his 
 Paras i/t' re- 
 ceaves 
 
 P resents ot all, 
 assures, de- 
 kides : Then 
 weaves 
 
 ( ) ther crosse- 
 plots, which 
 ope' them- 
 selves, are 
 
 told. 
 
 New tricks 
 for safet\', 
 are sought ; 
 they thrive : 
 When, hold, 
 
 E ach tempt's 
 t h ' other 
 againe, aiul 
 all are sold.
 
 THE PROLOGUE 
 
 No-zu, luck God send us, and a little ivU 
 
 Will serve, to make our Play //// ,- 
 (According to the palates of the season) 
 
 Here is rime, not emptie of reason : 
 'This we ivere bid to credit, from our Poet, 
 
 Whose true scope, if you would knowe it. 
 In all his Poemes, still, hath heene this measure. 
 
 To niixe profit, with your pleasure ; 
 And not as some (whose throates their envie fiyling) 
 
 Crie hoarsely. All he writes, is rayling : 
 Ami, when his Playes come forth, ihinke they can font them . 
 
 With saving. He was a yeare about them. 
 To these there needs no Lye, but this his creature, 
 
 IVhich was, two monthes since, no feature ; 
 And though he dares give them five lives to mend it, 
 
 '•Tis know>ie, five weekes fully pen d it : 
 From his owne hand, without a Co-adjutor, 
 
 Novice, Journey-man, or Tutor. 
 Yet, thus much I can give you, as a token 
 
 Of his Playes worth. No egges are broken. 
 Nor (juaking Custards with feirce teeth affrighted, 
 
 Whereivilh four route are so delighted; 
 Nor hales hee in a Gull, old ends reciting, 
 
 '■To stop gappes in his loose writing ; 
 ff'ith such a deale of monstrous, and forced action : 
 
 As might make Bethlem a faction : 
 Nor made he his Plav, for tests stolne from each -Table, 
 
 Hut niakes jests to fit his I'able ; 
 .hid, so presents quick Comoedy, refined. 
 
 As best Criticks have designed. 
 The Lawes of Time, Place, Persons he ohserveth. 
 
 From no needefull Rule he szverveth. 
 All gall, and coppresse, from his inke, he drayncth, 
 
 Onelie, a little salt remaineth ; 
 lllierezvith, heell rub your cheekes, till (red zvith laughter) 
 They shall looke fresh, a weeke after.
 
 ACT I. SCENE I 
 
 VOI.PONK. MOSCA. 
 
 ()1.1'C;NK. 
 
 (iood morning to 
 the Day; and next, 
 niv Gold : 
 
 Open the shrine, 
 that I may see my 
 
 Havle the worlds 
 soule, and mine. 
 More glad theti is 
 
 The teeming earth, 
 to sec the longd- 
 tor Siniiit' 
 
 i'eepe through the 
 horns ot the 
 Coelesliall Ram, 
 
 \m I, to view thy 
 siilendor, dark- 
 ening his : 
 
 That King here, 
 anKjngst my cjther 
 hoordes, 
 
 Shevv'st like a tiame, h\ night ; or like the Day 
 Strooke out ot' Chaoi, when all darkenes fled 
 Unto the center. O thou Sonne of Sol, 
 (But brighter than thy father), let|. me kisse, 
 With adoration, thee, and every relique 
 Of sacred treasure, in this blessed roome. 
 
 21
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Well did wise Por/s, by thy glorimis name, 
 
 Title that age, which thev would have the best ; 
 
 Thou being the best of things : and far transcending 
 
 All stile of joy, in children, parents, friends, 
 
 Or any other waking dreame on earth. 
 
 Thv look.es when they to Venus did ascribe. 
 
 They should have giv'n her twenty thousand Cupids; 
 
 Such are thy beauties, and our loves. Deare Saint, 
 
 Riches, the dombe God, that giv'st all men tongues ; 
 
 That canst doe naught, and vet mak'st men doe all things ; 
 
 The price of soutes ; even hell, with thee to boote, 
 
 Is made worth heaven. Thou art vertue, tame. 
 
 Honor, and all things else. Who can get thee, 
 
 He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise, 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And what he will, Sir. Riches are in fortune 
 A greater good, than wisedom is in nature. 
 
 \OLPONK. 
 
 True, my beloved Mosca. Yet, I gloi-y 
 More ill the cunning [uirchasse ot my wealth. 
 Than in the glad possession ; since I gaine 
 No common way : I use nu trade, no venter ; 
 I wound no earth with plow-shares ; fat no beasts 
 To feede the Shambles ; have no mills for iron, 
 Oyle, corne, or men, to griiule 'hem into poulder ; 
 I blow no SLibtill glasse ; exjiose no shi[ips 
 To threatnings ot the turrnw-taced sea ; 
 I turne no mone\s, in the publike banke. 
 Nor usure [irivate. 
 
 MDSCA. 
 
 No sir, nor devoure 
 
 Soft proiiigalls. You shall ha' some will swallow 
 A melting heire, as glibly, as y<nir DiiUli 
 Will pills o| butter, and nere purge (or't ; 
 
 22
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Teare forth the fathers of poorc faniihes 
 Out ot the-ir beds, and coffin them ahve, 
 In some kinde, clasping prison, where their hones 
 May he forth-comming, when the flesh is rotten : 
 But your sweet nature doth abhorre these courses ; 
 \ou loathe, the widdowes, or the orphan's teares 
 Should washe your pavements ; or their pityous cries 
 Ring in your roofes, and beate the ayre for vengeance. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Right, Mosca ; I do loath it. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And, besides, Sir, 
 
 You are not like the thresher, that doth stand 
 With a huge flaile, watching a heape of corne, 
 And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest graine, 
 But feedes on mallowes, and such bitter herbes ; 
 Nor like the merchant, who hath fill'd his vaults 
 With RomagH'ni, and rich Candian wines. 
 Yet drinks the lees of LombarLfs vineger : 
 lou will not lie in straw, whilst mothes, and wormes 
 Feed on your sumptuous hangings, and soft bedds. 
 "i ou know the use of riches, and dare give, now, 
 I-rom that bright heape, to mee, your poore observer. 
 Or to your Dwarfe, or your Hermaphrodite, 
 Your Eunuch, or what other houshold-trifle 
 Your pleasure allowes maint'nance. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Hold thee, Mosca, 
 
 Take of my hand ; thou strik'st on truth in all : 
 
 And they are envious, terme thee Parasite. 
 
 Call forth my Dwarfe, my Eunuch, and my Foole, 
 
 And let 'hem make me sport. What should I do, 
 
 But cocker up my Genius, and live free 
 
 To all delights, my fortune calls me too.? 
 
 23
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 I have no wife, no parent, childe, allye. 
 
 To give my substance too ; but whom I make, 
 
 Must be mv heyre : and this makes men observe me. 
 
 This drawes newe clients, dayly, to my house. 
 
 Women, and men, of every sexe, and age. 
 
 That bring me presents, seiid me plate, coyne, jewels, 
 
 With hope, that when I die, (which they expect 
 
 Each greedy minute) it shall then returne 
 
 Ten-fold upon them ; whil'st some, covetous 
 
 Above the rest, seeke to engrosse me, whole, 
 
 And counter-worke, the one, unto the other. 
 
 Contend in gifts, as they would seeme, in love : 
 
 All which I suffer, playing with their hopes. 
 
 And am content to coyne 'hem into pi-ofit. 
 
 To looke u|inn their kindnesse, and take more, 
 
 And looke on that ; still, bearing them in hand. 
 
 Letting the cherry knock against then- lips. 
 
 And, drawe it, by their mouths, and back again. How now! 
 
 ACT 1. SCENE 2. 
 
 NANO. ANDROGYNO. CASTRONl-:. N'OLPONlv MOSCA. 
 
 Now roome, for fresh Ganislers, zv/io do ivill yon to kno-ii\ 
 They do bring you neither Play, nor University Shoiv ; 
 And therefore do intreat yon, that whatsoever they reherse, 
 May not fare a whit the worse, for the false pase of the verse. 
 If you wonder at this, you will wonder more, ere we passe. 
 For know, here is inclos d the soule of Pithagoras, 
 ■J hat lugler divine, as hereafter shall follow ; 
 H'liidi Soule (fast, and loose. Sir ), ranic first from /Xpullo, 
 And was breatlid into ^^^thalides, Mercurius his soinu\ 
 IVhere it had the gift to remember all that ever was done, 
 From thence it fled forth, and made quiche transmigration 
 "•to goldy-lockt Euphorbus, who was kilTd, in good fashion, 
 
 24
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 At the seege of old Troy, by the Cuckold of Sparta. 
 
 Herniotimus was next (I find it, in tny ChartaJ, 
 
 To whom it did passe, where no sooner it ivas jnissing, 
 
 But with one Pirrhus, of Delos, // learn' d to go a-fishini(: 
 
 And thence, did it enter the Sophist of Greece, 
 
 From Pithagore, she went into a beautiful I peece, 
 
 Hight Aspasia, the Meretrix ; and the next tosse of her 
 
 Was, againe, of a Whore, she became a Philosopher, 
 
 Crates the Cynick : (as it self e doth relate it) 
 
 Since, Kings, Knights, and Beggars, Knaves, Lords, and 
 
 Fooles gat it. 
 Besides, Oxe and Asse, Cammel, Mule, Goat, and Brock, 
 In all which it hath spoke, as in the Cobblers Cock. 
 But I come not here, to discourse of that matter. 
 Or his One, Two, or Three, or his great Oath, By Ouatcr, 
 His Miisicks, his Trigon, his golden Thigh, 
 Or his telling how P^lements shift : but I 
 Would aske, how of late, thou hast suffered translation. 
 And shifted thy coat, in these dayes of Reformation. 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 Like one of the Reformed, a I<'oole, as you see. 
 Counting all old Doctrine heresie : 
 
 NANO. 
 
 But not on thine owne forbid meates hast thou venter d^ 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 On fish, when first, a Carthusian / entered. 
 NANO. 
 
 Why, then thy dogmaticall Silence hath left thee f 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 Of that an obstreperous Lawyer bereft mee. 
 
 NANO. 
 
 O wonderful change ! when S"'- Lawyer forsook thee. 
 For Pithagore's sake, what body then tooke thee ^
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 A good dull Moyle. 
 
 NANO. 
 
 And how ? by that meanes, 
 
 'Thou ivert brought to allow of the eating of Beanes ? 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 Tes. 
 
 NANO. 
 
 But from the Moyle, into whom didst thou pass '^ 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 Into a very strange Beast, by some Writers cafd an Asse ; 
 B\ others, a precise, pure, illuminate Brother, 
 Of those devoure flesh, and sometimes one another : 
 And will drop you forth a libell, or a sanctified lie. 
 Betwixt every spooneful of a Nativity-P/f. 
 
 NANO. 
 
 Now quit thee, for Heaven, of that profinenation. 
 And gently, report thy next transmigration. 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 To the same that I am. 
 
 NANO. 
 
 A Creature of delight ? 
 
 And (what is more than a VnnhJ an Hermaphrodite .'' 
 Now, pray thee, sweete Soule, in all thy variation. 
 Which Body wouldst thou choose, to take up thy station ? 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 Troth, this J am in, even here would 1 tarry. 
 NANO. 
 
 'Cause here, the delight of each Sexe thou canst varie ? 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 Alas, those pleasures be stale, and forsaken ; 
 No, 'tis your I'nole, wherewith I din so taken, 
 
 26
 
 TH1<: KOXE 
 
 The onh one Creature tJuit I can call blessed : 
 For all other formes I have prov d most distressed. 
 
 NANO. 
 
 Spoke true, as thou zvert in Pithagoras still. 
 This learned opinion we celebrate will. 
 
 Fellow Eunuch (as behooves us)., with all our wit, and arte. 
 To dignifie that, whereof ourselves are so great, and special a 
 part. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Now, very, very pretty : Mosca, this 
 Was thy invention ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 If it please my Patron, 
 Not else. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 It doth good Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Then it was, S''- 
 
 SONG 
 
 Fooles, they are the onely Nation 
 
 Worth men s envy, or admiration ; 
 
 Free from care, or sorrow-taking. 
 
 Themselves, and others merry making : 
 
 All they speake, or do, is sterling. 
 
 Tour Koole, he is your great mans dearling. 
 
 And your Ladies sport, and pleasure ; 
 
 Tongue, and Bable are his treasure. 
 
 His very face begetteth laughter. 
 
 And he speake s truth, free from slaughter ; 
 
 He's the grace of every feast. 
 
 And, sometimes, the cheefest guest : 
 
 27
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Hath Ills trencher^ and his stoole, 
 * When tvit xvaites upon the fool. 
 0, who ziw uld not bee 
 Hee, hee, hee ? " 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Who's that ? away, looke Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Foole, begon, 
 
 'Tis Signior Voltore, the advocate, 
 
 I know him by his knock. 
 
 \'OLPONE. 
 
 Ketch nic niy gowne, 
 
 My furres, and night-caps ; say, my couch is changing : 
 
 And let him intcrtaine himselte, a-whilc 
 
 Within i' th' gallery. Now, now, my clients 
 
 Beginne their visitation ; Vulture, Kite, 
 
 Raven, and gor-Crowe, all my birds of prey, 
 
 That thinke me turning carcasse, now they come : 
 
 I am not for 'hem yet. How now .^ the newes .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 A peece of plate. Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Ot what bignesse ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Huge, 
 
 Massie, and antique, with \'(iur name inscrib'il, 
 
 And amies ingraven. 
 
 VOLPONl':. 
 
 Gooii. /\nd not a I'oxe 
 
 Stretch'il on the earth, with fine delusive sleights, 
 
 Mocking a gaping Crow i' ha, Mosca? 
 
 '•'■ 'J'liis is the KcadiiiK of tlir lirst ((liliciii iif llic Wmlas of I'.iii Jinisoii, iliiC. 
 The Ivoadinj,' of the lirst cijilioi] of "'IIk' l-'oxc," ilxiy, lias; II7;c;i ..'i7 .%//,/// liUiitc iipuii 
 the JuuU. 
 
 28
 
 THE KOXK 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sharpc, Sir. 
 
 VOLPONK. 
 
 Give iiK- mv turres. 
 
 Why dost thou laugh so, man ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I cannot choose, Sir, when 1 apprehend 
 What thoughts he has (within) now, as he walks : 
 That this might be the last gift, he should give ; 
 That this would fetch you ; \t you died to-day, 
 And gave him all, what he should be to-morrow ; 
 What large retunie would come ot all his venters ; 
 How he should worship'd bee, and reverenc'd ; 
 Ride, with his furres, and foote-cloths ; waited on 
 By herds of Foo/es, and clients ; have cleare way 
 Made for his moyle, as letter'd as himselfe ; 
 Be cald the great, and learned Advocate : 
 And then conclucies, there's nought impossible. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 "Yes, to be learned, Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, no : rich 
 
 Implies it. Hood an asse, with reverend purple. 
 So you can hide his two ambitious eares, 
 And, he shall passe for a catliedrall Doctor. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch him in. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Stay, Sir ; your ointment for your eyes. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 That's true ; 
 
 Dispatch, dispatch : 1 long to have possession 
 
 Ot my newe present. 
 
 29
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 That, and thousands more, 
 I hope, to see you lord of. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Thankes, kind Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And that, when I am lost in blended dust. 
 And hundreds such, as I am, in succession 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Nay, that were too much, Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 You shall live, 
 
 Still, to delude these Harpyeis. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Loving Mosca^ 
 
 'Tis well, my pillow now, and let him enter. 
 
 Now, my fain'd Cough, my Pz/nsick, and my Goute, 
 
 My Apoplexie, Palsie and Catarrhe, 
 
 Helpe, with your forced functions, this my posture. 
 
 Wherein, this three yeare, I have milk'd their hopes. 
 
 He comes ; I heare him — (uh, uh, uh, uh) o. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE 5- 
 
 MOSCA. VOLTORE. VOLPONE. 
 
 You still are, what you were, Sir. Onely you, 
 (Of all the rest) are he commands his love : 
 And ycju do wisely to preserve it, thus, 
 With early visitation, and kinde notes 
 Of your gootl meaning to him, \shii.h, I know, 
 Cannot hut come most gratetull. /V//r«;/, Sir. 
 i irre's Signior Voltore is come 
 
 30
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 volponf:. 
 
 What say you ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 S', Siguier Voltore is conic, this morning, 
 To visit you. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I thanke him. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And hath brought 
 
 A peece of antique plate, bought of St. Marke, 
 
 With which he here presents you. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 He is welcome. 
 
 Pray him, to come more often. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 Yes. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 What sales he .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He thankes you, and desires you see him often. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Mosca. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 My patron ^ 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Bring him neare, where is he.' 
 
 I long to feele his hand. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 The plate is here, S'- 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 How fare you S' ^ 
 
 31
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I thanke you, Signior Voltore ; 
 
 ^^'he^e is the plate? mine eyes are bad. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 I'm sorry 
 
 To see you still thus weake. 
 
 MOSCA 
 
 That hee is not weaker. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 You are too munificent. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 No, S""- Would to heaven, 
 
 I could as well give health to you, as that plate. 
 
 \T)LPONE. 
 
 You give, S''-, what you can. I thanke you. Yolu^ love 
 Hath tast in this, and shall not be unanswer'd. 
 I pray you see me often. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Yes, I shall, S^ 
 X'OI.PONE. 
 
 Be not far from mee. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Do you observe that, S' .'' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I L'arken unto mee, still. It will conceiMie you. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 \'ou are a happy man S", know your gootl. 
 
 VOLPONl<:. 
 
 1 cannot now last long. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 '^ ou are his heyi"e, S'' 
 
 32
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Am I? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I feele mee going (uh, uh, uh, uh.) 
 
 I am sayling to my port (uh, uh, uh, uh.) 
 
 And I am glad, I am so necrc my haven. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Alas, kinde gentleman, well, we must all go. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 But, Mosca, 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Age will conquer. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 'Pray thee, heare mee. 
 
 Am I inscrib'd his heire, for certaine .f* 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Are you } 
 
 I do beseech you, S'', you will vouchsafe 
 To write me, i' your family. All my hopes. 
 Depend upon your worship ; I am lost. 
 Except the rising Sunne do shine on me. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 It shall both shine, and warme thee, Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 S% 
 
 I am a man, that have not done your love 
 All the worst offices, here I weare your keys. 
 See all your coffers, and your caskets lockt, 
 Keepe the poore inventorie of your jewels, 
 Your plate, and moneyes, am your Steward, S' 
 Husband your goods here. 
 
 2,i
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 But am I sole heyre ? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Without a partner, S"^- Confirmdc this morning ; 
 The waxe is warme yet, and the inice scarce dry 
 Upon the parchment. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Happy, happy mee ! 
 By what good chance, svveete Mosca ? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Your desert. Sir ; 
 
 I know no second cause. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Thy modesty 
 
 Is loath to know it ; well, we shall retjiiite it. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He ever lik'd your course, S'- That first tooke him. 
 
 I, oft, have heard him say, how he admir'd 
 
 Men of your large profession, that could speake 
 
 To every cause, and things mere contraries, 
 
 Till they were hoarse againe, yet all bee Law ; 
 
 That, with most quicke agility, could turne. 
 
 And rcturnc ; make knots, and undoc them ; 
 
 Give forked coimcell ; take provoking gold 
 
 On eyther hand, and put it up : These men. 
 
 He knewe, would thrive, with their humility. 
 
 And (for his part) he thought, he should be blest 
 
 To have his heyre of such a suffering spirit, 
 
 So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a tongue, 
 
 And loud withall, that wouKl not wag, nor scarce 
 
 Lie still, without a fee ; when every word 
 
 Your worship but lets fall, is a Cecch'nie. 
 
 Who's that.'' One knockes, I would not have you scene, S'' 
 
 And yet — jirctend you came, ami went In hast ; 
 
 34
 
 THK FOXE 
 
 Ik- hishioii nil excuse. And, gentle Sir, 
 When y<Hi do come to swim, in golden l;ird. 
 Up to the amies, in honey, that your chin 
 Is borne up stiffe, with tatnesse of the flood, 
 Think on your vassall ; hut remember mee : 
 I ha'not beene your worst of clients. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Mosca 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 When will you have your inventory brought, S'^ 
 Or see a coppy of the Will .? Anone, 
 He bring 'hem to you Sir. Away, be gon, 
 Put businesse i' your face. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Excellent Mosca ! 
 
 Come hither, let me kisse thee. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Keepe you still Sir. 
 Here is Corbaccio. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Set the plate away. 
 
 The Vulture's gone, and the old Raven's come. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE 4. 
 
 MOSCA. CORBACCIO. VOLPONE. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Betake you, to your silence, and your sleepe : 
 Stand there, and multiply. Now, shall we see 
 A wretch, who is (indeed) more impotent. 
 Than this can f;iyne to bee ; yet hopes to hop 
 Over his grave. 
 
 35
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Signior Corbaccio, 
 Yo' are very welcome, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 How do's your Patron ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Troth, as he did, Sir, no amends. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What } mendes hee } 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No, Sir : he is rather worse. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 That's well. Where is he ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Upon his couch, Sir, newly tall'n a sleepe. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Do's hee sleepe well ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No winke. Sir, all this night. 
 Nor yesterday, but slumbers. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Good. He should take 
 
 Some counsell of Physitians : I have brought him 
 
 An Opiate here, from mine owne Doctor 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He will not hearc q\ tirugs. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Why .'' I my selfe 
 
 Stood by, while't was maile ; saw all th" ingredients 
 
 And know, it cannot but most gently worke. 
 
 Mv life for his, 'tis but to make liim sleepe. 
 
 36
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I, his last sleepe, if he would take it. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, he ha's no faith in physick. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 'Say you ? 'say you ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He has no faith in Physick : He do's thinke 
 Most of your Doctors are the greater danger, 
 And worse disease, t' escape. I often have 
 Heard him protest that your Physitian 
 Should never be his heyre. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Not I his heyre ^. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Not your Physitian, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 O, no, no, no, I do not meane it. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No Sir, nor their fees 
 
 He cannot brooke : He sayes, they flea a man, 
 
 Before they kill him. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Right, I conceive you. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And then, they doe it by experiment ; 
 For which the Law not onely doth absolve 'hem, 
 But gives them great reward : And, he is loath 
 To hire his death, so. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 It is true, they kill, 
 
 With as much licence, as a Judge.
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Nay, more ; for he but kills, Sir, where the La-iv condemnes. 
 And these can kill him, too ; 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I, or mee : or any man. How do's his Apoplexe ? 
 Is that strong on him, still? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Most violent. His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, 
 His face drawne longer, then 'twas wont 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 How .'' how } 
 
 Stronger, then he was wont .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No, Sir : his face 
 
 Drawne longer, then 'twas wont. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 O, good. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 His mouth is ever gaping, and his eye-lids hang. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Good. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 A freezing numnesse stiffens all his joynts. 
 And makes the colour of his flesh like lead. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 "ris good. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 His |Hilse beats slow, and dull. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Good symp tomes still. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And, from his liraine 
 
 38
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Ha? how? not tVoni his bniinc? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, Sir, ;iiul from his hi-aine 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I conceive you, good. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Klowes a cold sweat, with a continuall rhewme, 
 Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Is't possible ? yet I am better, ha ! 
 
 How do's he, with the swimming of his head i' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Oh, Sir, 'tis past, the Scotomy* \ he, now, 
 Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort : 
 You hardly can perceive him, that he breaths. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Excellent, excellent, sure I shall outlast him : 
 This makes me young againe, a score of yeares. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I was a coming for you, sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Has he made his Will ? 
 What has he giv'n me ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No, sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Nothing ? ha ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He has not made his Will, Sir. 
 
 * Scolomia is a dizziness or swimming in the head. 
 
 39
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Oh, oh, oh, 
 
 But what did Voltore, the Lawyer, here ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He smelt a carcasse, Sir, when he but heard 
 
 My master was about his Testament ; 
 
 As I did urge him to it, for your good 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 He came unto him, did he ? I thought so. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, and presented him this peece of plate. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 To be his heire ^ 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I do not know. Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 True, I know it too. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 By your owne scale, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Well, I shall prevent him yet. See, Mosca, looke, 
 Here, I have brought a bag of bright ct'cchi)ies. 
 Will quite weigh downe his plate. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yea niarr)-. Sir. 
 
 This is true Pliysick, this your sacred Medicine; 
 
 No talke of Opiates to this great K/ixir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 'Tis /luruw palpabile, if not polabile. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 It shall be ministerM tn linn, in Ins boiile } 
 
 40
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I, doe, doe, doe. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Most blessed Cordial!, 
 This will recover hiin. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Yes, doe, doe, doe. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I thinke, it were not best. Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 To recover him. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 O, no, no, no ; by no meanes. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Why, Sir, this 
 
 Will worke some strange effect, if he but feele it. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 'Tis true, therefore forbeare ; He take my venter : 
 Give mee 't againe. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 At no hand ; pardon mee : 
 
 You shall not do yourselfe that wrong. Sir. I 
 
 Will so advise you, you shall have it all. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 How ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 All, sir ; 'tis your right, your own ; no man 
 Can claime a part : 'tis yours, without a rivall, 
 Decre'd by destiny. 
 
 41
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 How ? how, good Mosca ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He tell you, S'- This fit he shall recover ; 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I do conceive you. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And, on first advantage 
 
 Of his gain'd sense, will 1 re-importune him 
 
 Unto the making of his Testament : 
 
 And shew him this. 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Good, good. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 'Tis better yet, if you will hearc, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Yes, with all my heart. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Now, would I counccll you, make home with speed ; 
 There, frame a Will ; whereto you shall inscribe 
 My maister your sole hcyre. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 And tlisinherit my Sonne .' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O Sir, the better : for that colour 
 Shall make it much more taking. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 O, but colom- .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 This Will Sir, you shall send it unto me. 
 
 Now, when I come to mtorce (as 1 will do) 
 
 Voui' cares, your watchings, and yoin- many prayers, 
 
 42
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Your more than many gifts, your this dayes present, 
 
 And, last, produce your Will ; where (without thought. 
 
 Or least regard, unto your proper issue, 
 
 A Sonne so brave, and highly meriting) 
 
 The streame of your diverted love hath throwne you 
 
 Upon my maister, and made him your heyre. 
 
 He cannot be so stupide, or stone dead. 
 
 But, out of conscience, and mere gratitude 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 He must pronounce me, his? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 'Tis true. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 This plot 
 
 Did I thinke on before. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I do beleeve it. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Do you not beleeve it ■ 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Mine own project. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Which when he hath done. Sir 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Publish'd me his heire.^ 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And you so certaine to survive him — 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 I. 
 
 43
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Being so lusty a man 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 'Tis true. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I thought on that too. See, how he should be 
 The very organ, to expresse my thoughts ! 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 You have not onely done yourselfe a good, 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 But multiplied it on my sonne .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 'Tis right. Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Still, my invention. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 'Lasse, Sir, heaven knows, 
 
 It hathc beene all my study, all mv care, 
 
 (I e'ene grow g''^'y withall), how to worke things 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I do conceive, sweet Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 You are he 
 
 I'Or whom I lahom", here. 
 
 CCJRBACCKJ. 
 
 I, doe, doe, doe : 
 He straight about it. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Rooke go with \-ou. Raven. 
 
 44
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I know thee honest. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 You do lie, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 And 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Your knowledge is no better than your eares Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I do not doubt, to be a father to thee. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Nor I, to gull mv brother of his blessing. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I may ha' my youth restor'd to mee, why not ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Your worship is a precious asse. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What sai'st thou .' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I do desire your worship, to make haste. Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 'Tis done, 'tis done, I go. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O, I shall burst ; 
 
 Let out my sides, let out my sides 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Containe 
 
 Your fluxe of laughter, Sir : you know, this hope 
 
 Is such a baite, it covers any hooke. 
 
 45
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 0, but thv working, and thy placing it ! 
 
 I cannot hold ; good rascal, let me kisse thee : 
 I never knew thee, in so rare a humor. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Alas, Sir, I but do, as I am taught ; 
 
 Follow your grave instructions ; give 'hem words ; 
 
 Powre o\'le into their ears : and send them hence. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment 
 Is avarice, to it seUe .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 1, with our helpe. Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 So many cares, so many maladies. 
 
 So many feares attending on old age. 
 
 Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish 
 
 Can be more frec]uent with 'hem, their limbes faint, 
 
 Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going 
 
 All dead before them ; vea, their very teeth. 
 
 Their instruments of eating, failing them : 
 
 Yet this is reckoned life ! Nay, here was one, 
 
 Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer ! 
 
 Feeles not his gout, nor palsy ; faines himself 
 
 Yonger, by scores of yeares, flatters his age 
 
 With confident belying it, hopes he may 
 
 With charms like .Esnii, have his youth restor'd. 
 
 And with these thoughts so battens, as it Fate 
 
 Would be as easily cheated on, as he, 
 
 And all turns ayre ! Who's that, there, now.? a third.'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Close, to your couch againe ; I heare his voice. 
 It is Corz'iiw, our spruce merchant. 
 
 46
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 Dead. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Another bout, Sir, with your eyes [lUiohiting them\ Who's 
 there ? 
 
 ACT I. SCENE ^. 
 
 MOSCA. CORVINO. VOLPONE. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Siguier Corvino I come most wisht for ! O, 
 How happy were you, if you knew it, now ! 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Why .^ what.'' wherein.? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 The tardie houre is come, Sir. 
 CORVINO. 
 
 He is not dead .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Not dead. Sir, but as good ; 
 He knows no man. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 How shall I do then .? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Why, Sir.? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I have brought him here, a Pearle. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Perhaps, he has 
 
 So much remembrance left, as to know you. Sir ; 
 
 47
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 He still calls on you ; nothing but your name 
 Is in his mouth: Is your Pearle orient, Sir? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Venice was never owner of the like. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Signior Corvino. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Hearke. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Signior Corvino. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He calls you, step and give it him. H'is here. Si 
 And he has brought you a rich Pearl. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 How doe you, Sir.f* 
 
 Tell him, it doubles the twelve Caract. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, he cannot iniderstand, his hearing's gone ; 
 And yet it comforts him, to see you 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Say, 
 
 I have a Diamant tor him, too. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Bust shcw't, Sii- ; 
 
 Put It intcj his hanii ; 'tis onel)- thei-e 
 He apprehends : he has his feeling, yet. 
 See, hiiw he graspes it! 
 
 COKM.NO. 
 
 'Lasse, good gentleman ! 
 I low jiittiUil the sight is ! 
 
 48
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Tut, forget, Sir. 
 
 The weeping of an heyre should still be laughter 
 
 Under a visor, 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Why ? am I his heyre ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, I am sworne, I may not shew the Will, 
 
 Till he be dead : But, here has beene Corbaccio, 
 
 Here has beene I'oltore, here were others too, 
 
 I cannot number 'hem, they were so many. 
 
 All gaping here for legacyes ; but I, 
 
 Taking the vantage of his naming you, 
 
 (Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino,) tooke 
 
 Paper, and pen, and ynke, and there I ask'd him 
 
 Whom he would have his heyre .? Corvino : Who, 
 
 Should be executor, Corvino : And, 
 
 To any question, he was silent too 
 
 I still interpreted the noddes, he made, 
 
 (Through weaknesse) for consent : and sent home th' others, 
 
 Nothing bequeathed them, but to crie, and curse. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 O, my dear Mosca. Do's he not perceive us ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No more then a blinde harper. He knowes no man, 
 No face of friend, nor name of any servant, 
 Who't was that fed him last, or gave him drinke : 
 Not those, he hath begotten, or brought up 
 Can he remember. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Has he children ? 
 
 49 G
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Bastards, 
 
 Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars, 
 
 Gipsevs, and Jewes, and Biack-moores, when he was drunke. 
 
 Knew you not that, Sir ? 'Tis the common fable. 
 
 The Dwarfe, the Foole, the Eunuch are all his ; 
 
 H'is the true father of his familie. 
 
 In all, save mee : but he has giv'n 'hem nothing. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 That's well, that's well. Art sure he does not heare us ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sure Sir ? why loolce you, credit your owne sense. 
 
 The Poxe approch, and adde to your diseases. 
 
 If it would sende you hence the sooner. Sir, 
 
 For, your incontinence, it hath deserv'd it 
 
 Throughly, and throughly, and the Plague to boot. 
 
 (You may come neere, Sir.) Would you would once close 
 
 Those filthy eyes of yours, that flowe with slime. 
 
 Like two trog-pits ; and those same hanging cheekes, 
 
 Cover'd with hide, in steede of skinne : (nay helpe, Sir) 
 
 That looke like frozen dish-clouts, set on end. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Or, like an old smoak'd wall, on which the raine 
 Ran downe in streakes. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Excellent, Sir, speake out ; 
 
 You may he lowder yet ; A Culvering, 
 
 Discharged in his eare would hardly bore it. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 His nose is like a common sewre, still running ; 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 'Tis good : and, what his mouth ? 
 
 50
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 A very draught. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, stop it up 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Bv no meaiies ; 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Pray you let mee. 
 
 Faith, I could stifle him, rarely, with a pillow. 
 
 As well, as any woman, that should keepe him. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Do as you will, but lie be-gone. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Be so ; it is your presence makes him last so long. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I pray v'ou, use no violence. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No, Sir ? why ? 
 
 Why should you be thus scrupulous .-' 'pray you. Sir ? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Nay, at your discretion. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Well, good Sir, be gone. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I will not trouble him now, to take my Pearle. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Puh, nor your Diamant. What a needelesse care 
 
 Is this afilicts you .'' Is not all, here yours .'' 
 
 Am not I here .'' whom you have made .'' your creature .'' 
 
 That owe my beeing to you ? 
 
 51
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Grateful! Mosca : 
 
 Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion, 
 
 My partner, and shalt share in all my fortunes. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Excepting one. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 What's that ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Your gallant wife. Sir. 
 
 Now, is he gone : we had no other meanes, 
 
 To shoote him hence, but this. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 My divine Mosca ! 
 
 Thou hast to-day out-gone thy selte. Who's there ^ 
 
 I will be troubled with no more. Prepare 
 
 Me musicke, dances, banquets, all delights ; 
 
 The Turke is not more sensual, in his pleasures 
 
 Than will Volpone. Let me see, a Pearle ^ 
 
 A Diamant ^ Plate r Cecchines ? good mornings purchase ; 
 
 Why this is better than rob Chiiyclies, yet : 
 
 Or fat, by eating (once a niont'h) a man. Who is't .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 The beauteous Lady JVould-bee, Sir. 
 
 Wife, to the English Knight, Sir Vnlitique IVould-bee, 
 
 (This is the stile. Sir, is directed mee) 
 
 Hath sent to know, how you have slept to night, 
 
 And if you would be visited. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Not, now. Some three hourcs, hence. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I tuKl the Sr/nirc, so much.
 
 THE KOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 When I am high with mirth, and wine ; then, then. 
 'Fore heaven, I wonder at the ilesperate vahire 
 Ot the bold English^ that thev dare let loose 
 Their wives, to all encounters ! 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, this Knight 
 
 Had not his name for nothing, he is politique. 
 
 And knowes, how ere his wife affect strange ayres, 
 
 She hath not yet the face, to be dishonest. 
 
 But had she Signior Corvino s wive's face 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Has she so rare a face '. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O Sir, the wonder. 
 
 The blazing Starre of Italy ; a wench 
 
 O' the first yeare, a beauty, ripe as harvest ! 
 
 Whose ski nne is whiter than a Swa>i, all over ! 
 
 Than silver, snow, or lillies ! a soft lip. 
 
 Would tempt you to eternity of kissing ! 
 
 And flesh, that melteth, in the touch, to bloud ! 
 
 Bright as your gold, and lovely, as your gold ! 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Why had not I knowne this, before ? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Alas, Sir, 
 
 My selfe, but yesterday, discover'd it. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 How might I see her .? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, not possible ; 
 
 Shee's kept as warily, as is your gold : 
 
 53
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Never do's come abroad, never takes ayre, 
 But at a windore. All her lookes are sweet, 
 As the first grapes, or cherries ; and are watch'd 
 As neare, as they are. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I must see her 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, there is a guard, of ten spies thick, upon her ; 
 All his whole houshold : each of which is set 
 Upon his fellow, and have all their charge. 
 When he goes out, when he comes in, examin'd. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I will go see her, though but at her windore. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 In some disguise, then .'' 
 
 \'OLPONE. 
 
 That is true, I must 
 
 Maintaine mine owne shape, still, the same : wee'U thinke. 
 
 54
 
 ACT 2. SCENE I. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. PEREGRINE. 
 
 IR POLITIQUE 
 WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir, to a wise 
 man, all the 
 world's his 
 soile. 
 
 It is not lia/y, 
 nor France, 
 nor Europe, 
 
 That must bound 
 me, if my Fates 
 call me forth. 
 
 Yet, I protest, 
 it is no salt 
 desire 
 
 Of seeing Coun- 
 tries, shifting a 
 Religion, 
 
 Nor any d i s- 
 afFection to the 
 State 
 
 Where I was bred, (and unto which I owe 
 
 Mv dearest plots) hath brought me out ; much lesse, 
 
 That idle, antique, stale, grey-headed project 
 
 Of knowing men's mindes, and manners, with Ulisses 
 
 But, a peculiar humour of my wives. 
 
 55
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Layd for this height of Venice, to observe, 
 
 To quote, to learne the language, and so forth 
 
 1 hope you travell, Sir, with licence : 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 Yes : 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I dare the safelier converse How long. Sir, 
 
 Since you left England '{ 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Seven weekes. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 So lately ! 
 
 You ha' not beene with my Lord Ambassador ? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Not yet. Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Prav you, what newes. Sir, vents our climate .'' 
 I heard, last night, a most strange thing reported 
 By some of my Lord's followers, and I long 
 To heare, how't will be seconded ! 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 What was't, Sir } 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BI'-.E. 
 
 Marry, Sir, ot a Raven that should build 
 In a shi)-i royal! of the Kings. 
 
 PKRECAUNK. 
 
 This fellow 
 
 Do's he gull me, trow ? or is gull'd ? Your name. Si 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 IV1\' name is Politir/nr U'nHld-hee.
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 O, that speaks him. 
 A Knight, Sir ? 
 
 POLiriOUl'. WOULD-BEE. 
 
 A poore Knight, Sir. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Your Ladv lies here, in Venice, for intelligence 
 
 Of tires, and fashions, and behaviour. 
 
 Among the Curtizans ^ the fine Lady Would-bee ? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Yes ; Sir ; the spider, and the bee, oft times. 
 Suck from one flower. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Good Sir Politique ! 
 
 I crie you mercy ; I have heard much of you : 
 
 'Tis true. Sir, of your Raven. 
 
 POLiriCjUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 On your knowledge ? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Yes, and your Lions whelping, in the "Tower. 
 
 POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Another whelpe ^ 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Another, Sir. 
 
 POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Now heaven ! What prodigies be these .? The Eires at Berzvike ! 
 And the new Starre ! these things concurring, strange ! 
 And hill ot omen! Saw you those Meteors'^ 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 I did Sir. 
 
 57 H
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 FearefuU ! Pray vou Sir, confirme me. 
 
 Were there three Porcpisces seene, above the Bridge 
 
 As thev give out ? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Sixe, and a Sturgeon, Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 I am astonish'd. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Nay, Sir, be not so ; 
 
 He tell you a greater prodigie, than these 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 What should these things, portend ! 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 The very day 
 
 (Let me be sure) that I put forth trom London, 
 
 There was a Whale discover'd, in the river, 
 
 As high as Woollwich, that had waited there 
 
 (Few know how manv moneths) for the subversion 
 
 Of the 6Vo^f-Fleete. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Is't possible } Beleeve it, 
 
 'Twas either sent from Spaiiie, or the Arch-duke, 
 
 Spinola s Whale, upon mv life, my credit ; 
 
 Will they not leave these projects } Worthy Sir, 
 
 Some other newes. 
 
 PF.RECiRINE. 
 
 l"'aith. Stone, the ]''oole, is ilead ; 
 
 Ami they tio lack a taverne-!'"()ol, extremely. 
 
 POLII KHfE WOULD-BEE. 
 Is Mass' Stone dead .'' 
 
 58
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 1 ris dead, Sir, \\h\ ? I ho[ie 
 
 "^'ou thought him not immortall ? O, this Knight 
 (Were he well known) would be a precious thing 
 To fit our English Stage : He that should write 
 But such a fellow, shoidd be thought to faine 
 Extremely, if not maliciously. 
 
 POLITIC)UE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Stone dead .'' 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Dead. Lord ! how deepely Sir vou apprehend it .? 
 He was no kinsman to you ^ 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 That I know of. 
 
 Well ! that same fellow was an unknowne Foole. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 And yet you know him, it seemes } 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I did so. Sir, I knew him one of the most dangerous heads 
 Living within the State, and so I held him. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Indeed Sir .'' 
 
 POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 While he liv'd, in action. 
 
 He has receiv'd weekely intelligence, 
 
 Upon my knowledge, out of the Low Countries, 
 
 (For all parts of the world) in cabages ; 
 
 And those dispens'd, againe, to Ambassadors, 
 
 In oranges, musk-melons, apricocks, 
 
 Limons, pome-citrons, and suchlike : sometimes, 
 
 In Co/c/ieste!--oystcrs, and your Se/sey-cocklts. 
 
 59
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 You make me wonder ! 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir. Upon my knowledge. 
 
 Nay, I, have observ'd him, at your publique Ordinary, 
 
 Take his advertisement, from a Traveller 
 
 (A conceal'd AVrtto-man) in a trencher ot meate ; 
 
 And, instantlv, before the meale was done, 
 
 Convay an answer in a tooth-pick. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Strange ! How could this be, Sir ? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Why, the meate was cut 
 
 So like his character, and so layd, as he 
 
 Must easily read the cypher. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 I have heard, he could not read, Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 So, 'twas given out, 
 
 (In pollitie), by those, that did imploy him : 
 But he could read, and had your languages. 
 And to't, as sound a noddle 
 
 PEREGRINi:. 
 
 I have heard. Sir, 
 
 That your Babioims were spies ; and that the\' were 
 
 A kinde of subtle Nation, neare to China: 
 
 POLiriOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I, I, your Mamaluchi. b'aith, thev had 
 
 Their hand in a Froicli plot, or two ; but they 
 
 Were so extremely gi\'en to udiiicn, as 
 
 They made discovery of all : Vet I 
 
 Had my advises here (on wensday last) 
 
 I'rom one ot their ownc coat, thev weix' I'ctui'u'd, 
 
 60
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Mavlc their relations (as the fashion is) 
 And now stand taire, tor fresh imployment. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 •Hart ! 
 
 This Sir Poll: will be ignorant of nothing. 
 It seemes Sir, you know all ? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Not all Sir. But, 
 
 I have some generall notions ; I do love 
 
 To note, and to observe : Though I live out, 
 
 Free trom the active torrent, yet I'ld marke 
 
 The currents, and the passages of things, 
 
 l<'or mine owne private use ; and know the ebbes. 
 
 And flowes of State. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Beleeve it, Sir, I hold 
 
 Myselfe, in no small tie, unto my fortunes, 
 For casting mee thus luckely, upon you ; 
 Whose knowledge (if your bounty equall it) 
 May do me great assistance, in instruction 
 For my behaviour, and my bearing, which 
 Is yet so rude, and raw 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Why.'' came you forth 
 Empty of rules, for travayle .'' 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Faith, I had 
 
 Some common ones, from out that vulgar Grammar^ 
 Which hee, that cri'd Italian to mee, taught mee. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Why, this it is, that spoiles all our brave blouds. 
 Trusting our hopeful! gentry unto Pedants^ 
 Fellowes of out-side, and mere barke. You seem 
 
 6i
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 To be a gentleman, of ingenuous race 
 
 I not professe it, but mv fate hath beene 
 
 To be, where I have been consulted with. 
 
 In this high kinde, touching some great mens sonnes, 
 
 Persons of blouci, and honor. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Who be these, Sir ? 
 
 ACT 2. SCENE 2. 
 
 MOSCA. POLITIQUE. PEREGRINE. VOLPONE. 
 NANO. GREGE. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Under that windore, there 't nuist be. The same : 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Fellowes, to mount a banke ! Did your instructer 
 In the deare Tongues, never discourse to you 
 Of the Ilalian Montebankes ? 
 
 I'l.REGRINE. 
 Yes, Sir. 
 
 i'OLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 \\'h\-, here shall you see one. 
 
 pi:regrine. 
 
 They are Uunck-Salvers, 
 
 l-'cllnwcs, that live by venting oyles, and drugs.'' 
 
 I'OI.I I I()l'l', WOlfj.D-BEE. 
 
 Was that the character hee gave you cf them : 
 
 62
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 As I remenihcr. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Pittie his ignorance. 
 
 Thev n.re the onely-knowing men of F.Krope^ 
 Great, generall Sc/w/Iers, excellent Phisitiaiis, 
 Most admir'd States-men, profest Favorites, 
 And c^hmQ\.-Councellors , to the greatest P}-inces : 
 The onely Languag'd-mcn, of all the world. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 And, I have heard, thev are most lewd impostors ; 
 
 Made all of termes, and shreds ; no lesse heliers 
 
 Of great-men's favours, then their owne vile med'cines ; 
 
 Which they will utter, upon monstrous othes : 
 
 Selling that drug, for two pence, ere they part, 
 
 Which they have valew'd at twelve Crozvnes, before. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir, calumnies are answer'd best with silence ; 
 
 Your selfe shall judge. Who is it mounts, my friends ^ 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Scoto of Mantua, Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 Is't hee } Nay, then 
 
 He proudly promise. Sir, you shall behold 
 Another man, then has beene phant'sied, to you. 
 I wonder, yet, that hee should mount his banke. 
 Here, in this nooke, that has beene wont t'appeare 
 In face of the Piazza ! Here, he comes. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Mount, Zany. 
 GREGE. 
 
 Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow. 
 
 63
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 See how the people follow him ! hee's a man 
 May write loooo d'oivnes in Banke, here. Note, 
 Marke but his gesture ; I do use to observe 
 The state he keepes, in getting up ! 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Tis worth it. Sir. 
 
 ^'OLPONE. 
 
 Most noble Gent : and my worthy Patrons^ it may seeme strange, 
 that /, your Scoto Mantu.^no, zoho was ever wont to fixe my Banke 
 in the face of tJie publike Piazza, neare the shelter of the portico to the 
 Procuratia, should, now (after eight months' absence from this illustrious Citty 
 of Venice^ humbly retire my selfe, into an obscure nooke of the Piazza ; 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Did not I, now, object the same .'' 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Peace, Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Let me tel you : 1 am not (as your Lombard Proverbe sayth) cold 
 on my feete, or content to part with my commodities at a cheaper rate, 
 then I accustomed ; looke not for it. Nor, that the calumnious reports of 
 that impudent detractor, and shame to our profession (Alessandro Buttone, 
 / meane), who gave out, in publike, I was condemn d a 'Storzato to the 
 Galleys, for poysoning the Cardinall Remboo's — cooke, hath at all attached ; 
 much lesse deiected mee. No, no, worthie Gent : (to tell you true) 1 
 cannot indure, to see the rable of these ground Ciarlitani, that spread 
 their clokes on the pavement, as if they meant to do feates of activitie, 
 and then come in, lamely, with their tnouldy tales out of Boccacio, like 
 stale Tabarine, the Fabulist: some of them discoursing their travells, and 
 of their tedious captivity in the Turkes Galleyes, when, indeed (were the 
 truth knowne ) they were the C'hi-istians Galleys, where very temperately, 
 they eate bread, isf drunke water, as a wholesome ponuince ( enjoyn d them 
 by their Confessors) for base pilferies^ 
 
 64
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Note hut his bearing, and contempt of these. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 •■These turdy-facy-nasty-patie-lousie-farticall rogues, with one poore 
 groats-ijoorth of unprepar d antimony, finely wrapt up in several! 
 'Scartoccios, are able, very well, to kill their twenty a weeke, and play ; 
 yet these meagre sterv d spirits, who have halfe stopt the organs of their 
 mindes with earthy oppilations, want not their favourers among your 
 shrivel'd, sallad-eating Artisans : who are overjoyed thai they may have 
 their halfepe'rth of Physick, though it purge liem into another world, 
 makes no matter. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Excellent ! ha you heard better Language, Sir .-' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Well, let liem go : And, Gentlemen, honourable Gentlemen, know, 
 that for this time, our Banque, being thus removed from the clamours of 
 the Canaglia, shall he the Scene of pleasure and delight ; For I have 
 nothing to sell, little or nothing to sell. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I told you, Sir ; his ende. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 You did so. Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 / protest, I, and my sixe sej-vants, are not able to make of this 
 pretious liquor, so fast, as it is fetch' d away from my lodging, by Gentlemen 
 of your Citty ; Strangers of the Terra-ferma ; worshipful Merchants ; I, 
 and Senators too : who, ever since my arrivall, have detained me to their 
 uses, by their splendidous liberalities. And worthily. For, what avayles 
 your rich man to have his magazines stuft with Moscadelli, or the 
 purest grape, when his Physitians prescribe him (on paine of death) to 
 drink nothing but water, cocted with Anise-seeds ^ O health ! health ! 
 the blessing of the rich, the riches of the poore ! who can buy thee at to 
 
 &5 I
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 deare a rate, since there is no enjoying this -world, without thee ? Be not 
 then so sparing of your purses, honourable Gentlemen, as to abridge the 
 naturall course of life 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 You see his ende ? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 I, is't not good ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 For, when a humide Kluxc, or Catarrhe, by the mutabililv of avre, 
 falls from your head, into an arnie or shoulder, or any other part ; take you 
 a Ducket, or your Cecchine of gold, and applie to the place affected: see, 
 what good effect it can worke. No, no, 'tis this blessed Ungueiito, this 
 rare Extraction, that hath oneh power to disperse all malignant humors, 
 that procede, either of hot, cold, moist, or windy causes 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 I would he had put in dry to. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 'Pray you, observe. 
 
 VOLPONlv 
 
 •To fortifie the most indigest, and crude stomacke, I, were it of one, 
 that (through extreme weakenesse ) vomited bloud, applying only a warme 
 napkin to the place, after the unction, and fricace ; For the Vertigine 
 /;/ the head, putting but a drop into your nostrills, likewise, behind the 
 eares ; a most soveraigne, a)id approved remedy. The Mall-caduco, 
 Crampes, Convulsions, Paralysies, Epilepsies, 'I'rcnior-cordia, retired- 
 Nerves, /// Najiours of the spleene, Sto|i]iings ot the Liver, the Stone, the 
 Strangury, Ilernia ventosa, Iliaca jiassio ; st')ps a Disenteria, immediatly ; 
 easeth the tm-sion of the small guts : and cures Melancholia hypondriaca, 
 being taken and applyed, according to my pi-inted i^ecei|it. I'or, this is 
 the Physitian, ////.( the medicine; this councells, this cures; this gives the 
 direction, this works the effect: and (in summrj both together may be tcrm'd 
 an abstract of the thcorick and practick /';/ the /Esculapian ./;•/. '-Twill
 
 I'HE KOXE 
 
 cost you eiglit Crcnviies. Aiul^ Z;iii Kritada, 'pray thee sing a verse, extem- 
 pore, i>! honour of it. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BElv 
 
 How do yoii like him, Sir ? 
 
 pI':regrine. 
 
 Most strangely, I ! 
 
 politique WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Is not his language rare ? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 But Alchimy, I never heard the like : or Broughtons bookes. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Had old Hippocrates, or Galen, 
 
 (That to their bookes put me d' cine s all i)i ) 
 
 But knowne this secret, they had never 
 
 (Of which they will bee guilty ever) 
 
 Beene murderers of so much paper. 
 
 Or wasted many a hurtelesse taper : 
 
 No Indian drug had ere beene famed, 
 
 Tabacco, Sassafras not named ; 
 
 Ne yet, of Guacum, one small stick. Sir, 
 
 Nor Raymund Lullies greate Elixir. 
 
 A'^ had beene knowne the Danish Gonswart, 
 
 Or Paracelsus, with his long-sword. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 All this, yet, will not do ; eight Crownes is high. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 No more ; Gentlemen, if I had but time to discourse to you the 
 miraculous effects of this my oyle, surnamed Oglio del Scoto, with the 
 Count-lesse Catalogue of those I have cured of tK afore say d, and many 
 more diseases, the Pattents and Priviledges of all the Princes and 
 Common-wealths of Christendonie, or but the depositions of those that 
 
 67
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 appear d on «/v part, before the Signiry of tJie Sanita and most learned 
 CoUedge of Physitians ; where I -was author'rzed, upon notice taken 
 of the admirable vertues of my medicaments^ and mine owne excellency, in 
 matter of rare, and unkno-ivne secrets, not onely to disperse them publiquely 
 in this famous Citty, hut in all the '-Territories, that happely joy under 
 the government of the most pious and magnificent States of Italy. But 
 may some other gallant felloiv say, O, there be divers, that make profession 
 to have as good, and as experimented receipts, as yours : Indeed, very 
 many have assay d, like Apes, in imitation of that, -which is really, and 
 essentially in mee, to make of this oyle ; bestozv'd great cost in furnaces, 
 stilles, alembekes, continuall fires, and preparation of the ingredients, as in- 
 deede there goes to it sixe hundred severall Simples, beside, some quantity 
 of humane fat, for the conglutination, which we buy of the Anatomistes ; 
 But, when these Practitioners come to the last decoction, blow, blow, 
 puff, puff, and all flies in fumo : ha, ha, ha. Poore wretches ! I rather 
 pitty their folly, and indiscretion, then their losse of time, and money ; for 
 those may be recover d by industry : but to be a Foole borne, is a disease 
 incurable. For my self, I alwaies from my youth have indevor d to get the 
 rarest secrets, and booke them ; eyther in exchange, or for money ; J spared 
 nor cost, nor labour, where any thing was worthy to be learned. And, 
 Gentlemen, honourable Gentlemen, 1 will undertake, (by vertue of Chyniicall 
 Art,) out of the honourable hat, that covers your head, to extract the 
 foure Elements ; that is to say, the Fire, Ayre, Water, and Earth, 
 and returne you your felt, -without burne or staine. For, -whir st others 
 have beene at the ball«o, / have beene at my booke ; and am no-w past the 
 craggy pathes of study, and come to the ^oivrie plaines of honour, and 
 reputation. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I do assure you. Sir, that is his ayme. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 But, to our price. 
 
 PEREGRINlv 
 
 And that withall, Sli- /'«//. 
 
 68
 
 THE FOX]-; 
 
 \'OLPONR. 
 
 Tou all know (honourable Gentlemen ) I never valeia d this ampulla, 
 or violl, at lesse then eight Crowiies, but for this time^ I am content^ to be 
 deprived of it for sixe ; sixe Crownes is the price ; and lesse in curtesie, I 
 kno-iv you cannot offer mee ; take it, or leave it, howsoever, both it, and I 
 am at your service. I aske you not, as the valew of the thing, for then I 
 should demand of you a thousand Crownes, so the Cardi nails Montalto, 
 Fernese, the great Duke of Tuscany, my Gossip, with divers other 
 Princes have given me ; but I despise money : only to shew my affection 
 to you, honorable Gentlemen, and your illustrous State here, I have neglected 
 the messages of these Princes, mine owne offces, frani d my journey hither, 
 onely to present you with the fruicts of my travells. Tune your voyces once 
 more, to the touch of your instruments, and give the honorable assembly 
 some delightfull recreation. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 What monstrous, and most painefull circumstance 
 
 Is here, to get some three, or tour Gazetz ? 
 
 Some three-pence, i' th' whole, for that 'twill come too. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Tou that would last long, list to my song. 
 Make no more coyle, but buy of this oyle. 
 Would you be ever faire ? and yong ? 
 Stout of teeth ? and strong of tongue ^ 
 Tart of Palat ? quick of eare i' 
 Sharpe of sight ? of nostrill cleare ? 
 Moist of hand ? and light of foot ? 
 (Or I will come neerer to't) 
 Would you live free from all diseases ? 
 Do the act, your mistres pleases ; 
 I'et fright all aches from your bones ? 
 Here's a med'cine, for the nones. 
 
 69
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Well, I am in a humor (at this time) to make a present of the small 
 quantity my coffer containes : to the rich, in courtesie, and to the poore, for 
 Gods sake. Wherefore, nowe marke ; I ask'd you six Crownes, and six 
 Crownes, at other times, you have payd mee ; you shall not give mee six 
 Crownes, nor five, nor foure, nor three, nor two, nor one ; nor halfe a 
 Duckat ; no, nor a Mucclnigo. iV.v pence // will cost you, or sixe hundred 
 pound — expect no lower price, for, by the banner of my front, I will not 
 bate a bagatine, that I will have, only, a pledge of your loves, to carry 
 something from amongst you, to shew, I am not contemn d by you. Therefore, 
 now, tosse your handkerchiefes, chearefully, chearefully ; and bee advertised, 
 that the first heroique spirit, that deignes to grace mee with a handkerchiefe, 
 I will give it a little remembrance of something, beside, shall please it 
 better, then if 1 had presented it with a double Pistolet. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Will you be that heroique Sparke, Sir Pol ? 
 O see ! the windore has prevented you. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Lady, 1 kisse your bounty ; and, for this timely grace, you have done 
 your poore Scoto of Mantua, / will returne you, over and above my oyle, 
 a secret, of that high, and inestimable nature, shall make you for ever 
 enamour d on that minute, wherein your eye first descended on so meane, yet 
 not altogether to be despisd, an object. Here is a Poulder, conceafd in this 
 paper, of which, if I should speake to the worth, nine thousand volumes 
 were but as one page, that page as a line, that line as a word ; so short 
 is this Pilgrimage of man (which some call Lifej to the expressing of it : 
 would I refect on the price? why, the whole World were but as an l^mpire, 
 that empire as a Province, that Province as a Banke, thai Hankc as a 
 jirivate Purse, to the purchase of it. J will, onely, tell you; it is the 
 Poulder that made Venus a Goddesse (given her by Apolloj that kept 
 her perpetually yong, clear d her wrincles, firmed her gummes, filFd her 
 skinne, colour d het hayre ; From her, derivd to Helen, and at the sack 
 of Troy (unfortunately ) lost : Till no-w, in this our age, it was as happily 
 recover'd, by a studious Antiquary, out of some ruines of Asia, who sent a 
 
 70
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 moyetie of it, to the Court of l^Vance (but much sophisticated) wherewith 
 the Ladyes there, now, colour their hayre. The rest {at this present) remaines 
 with mee ; extracted, to a Quintessence : so that, where ever it but touches, in 
 youth it perpetually preserves, in age restores the complexion ; seats your teeth, 
 did they dance like Virginall jacks, firme as a wall ; makes them white, as 
 Ivory, that were black, as 
 
 ACT 2. SCENE 5. 
 
 CORVINO. POLITIOUE. PEREGRINE. 
 
 Bloud of the devill, and my shame ! come downe, here ; 
 
 Come downe: No house but mine to make your Scene? 
 
 Signior Flaminio, will you downe, Sir ? downe ^ 
 
 What, is my wife your Franciscina ? Sir ? 
 
 No windores on the whole Piazza, here. 
 
 To make your properties, but mine ? but mine ? 
 
 Hart ! ere to morrow, I shall be new christen'd. 
 
 And cald the Vantalone di Besogniosi, 
 
 About the towne. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 What should this meane. Sir Poll? 
 
 POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Some trick of State, beleeve it. I will home. 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 It may be some designe on you : 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I knowe not. He stand upon my gard. 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 'Tis your best, Sir. 
 
 POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 This three weekes, all my advises, all my letters, 
 The\' have been intercepted. 
 
 71
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Indeed, Sir ? Best have a care. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Nay so I will. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 This Knight, I may not loose him, for my mirth, till night. 
 
 ACT 2. SCENE 4. 
 
 VOLPONE. MOSCA. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I am wounded. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Where, Sir .'' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Not without ; 
 
 Those blowes were nothing : I could beare them ever. 
 
 But angry Cupid, bowlting from her eyes, 
 
 Hath shot himselfe into me, like a flame ; 
 
 Where, now, he flings about his burning heat, 
 
 As in a furnace, some ambitious fire. 
 
 Whose vent is stopt. The fight is all within niee. 
 
 1 cannot live, except thou heljie me, Mosca ; 
 My liver melts, and I, without the ho[ie 
 
 Of some soft ayre, from hei- reti-eshiiig breath. 
 Am but a heajic ot cuiilers. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 'Lasse, good Sir, woLild )()u hai! never scene her. 
 
 N'OLPONE. 
 
 Nay, would thou had'st iie\er told me ot her. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir 'tis true ; I do confesse, I was mitortunatc, 
 
 72
 
 THE I<'OXE 
 
 And you unhappy : but V am hnuiui in conscience, 
 
 No Icsse then duety, to effect my best 
 
 To v'Hir release of torment, and I will, Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Deare Mosca, shall I hope ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, more than deare, 
 
 I will not bidd you to dispaire of ought 
 
 Within a humane compasse. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O, there spoke my better Jnge//. Mosca, take my keyes, 
 Gold, plate, and iewells, all's at thy devotion ; 
 Employ them, how thou wilt ; nay, coyne me, too ; 
 So thou, in this, but crowne my longings, Mosca i' 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Use but your patience. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 So I have. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I doubt not but bring successe to your desires. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Nay, then, I not repent me of my late disguise. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 If you can home him. Sir, you neede not. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 True : Besides, I never meant him for my heyre. 
 
 Is not the colour of my beard and eye-brows, 
 
 To make me knowne ? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No iot. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I did it well. 
 
 73
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 So well, would I could follow you in mine, 
 With halfe the happinesse ; and, yet, I would 
 Escape your Epilogue. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 But were they gull'd 
 
 With a beleefe, that I was Scoto ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Scoto himselfe could hardly have distinguish'd ; 
 I have not time to flatter you, wee'll part : 
 And, as I prosper, so applaud my art. 
 
 ACT 2. SCENE ^. 
 
 CORVINO. CELIA. SERVITORE. 
 
 DEath of mine honour, with the Citties Foole ? 
 
 A iugling, tooth-drawing, prating Montebanke ? 
 
 And, at a public windore 1 where whil'st hee, 
 
 With his strain'd action, and his dole of faces. 
 
 To his drug-Lecture drawes your itching eares, 
 
 A crewe of old, un-mari'd, noted lechers, 
 
 Stood leering up, like Satyres ; and you smile. 
 
 Most graciously } and fanne your favours forth, 
 
 To give your hote Spectators satisfaction '^ 
 
 What ; was your Montebanke their call : their whistle .'' 
 
 Or were you enamour'd on his copper rings ."" 
 
 His saffron iewell, with the toade-stone in't .'' 
 
 Or his imbroydered sute, with the cope -stitch. 
 
 Made of a herse-cloth } or his old tilt-feather ^ 
 
 Or his starch'd beard .'' well ; voii shall have him, yes. 
 
 He shall come home, and minister unto \'ou 
 
 74
 
 THE KOXE 
 
 The fricace, for the Molher. Or, let me see, 
 
 I thinke, you 'had rather moui\t ? would you not mount ? 
 
 Why, if you'll mount, you may ; yes, truely, you may : 
 
 And so, you may be scene, downe to' th' toote. 
 
 Get you a citterne. Lady Vanity, 
 
 And be a Dealer, with the Vertuous Man ; 
 
 Make one : He but protest myselfe a cuckold. 
 
 And save your dowry, I am a Dutchman, I ; 
 
 For, if you thought me an Italian, 
 
 You would be damn'd, ere you did this, you Whore : 
 
 Thou'ldst tremble, to imagine, that the murder 
 
 Of father, mother, brother, all thy race. 
 
 Should follow, as the subject of my iustice. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Good Sir, have pacience. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 What couldst thou propose 
 
 Lesse to thyselfe, then, in this heate of wrath. 
 And stung with my dishonour, I should strike 
 This Steele unto thee, with as many stabs. 
 As thou wert gaz'd upon with goatish eyes ? 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Alas, Sir, be appeas'd ; I could not thinke 
 My being at the windore should more, now, 
 Move your impatience, then at other times : 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 No.'' not to seeke, and entertaine 3. parlee ; 
 
 With a knowne knave.'' before a multitude.'' 
 
 You were an Actor, with your handkercheife ; 
 
 Which he, most sweetly, kist in the receipt. 
 
 And might (no doubt) returne it, with a letter, 
 
 And point the place, where you might meete : your sisters, 
 
 Your mothers, or your aunts might serve the turne. 
 
 75
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Why, deare Sir, when do I make these excuses? 
 Or ever stirre, abroad, but to the Church ? 
 And that, so seldome 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Well, it shall be lesse ; 
 
 And thy restraint, before, was liberty, 
 
 To what I now decree : And therefore, marke mee. 
 
 First, I will have this baudy light damn'd up ; 
 
 And, till't be done, some two, or three yards of, 
 
 He chalke a line : ore which, if thou but (chance 
 
 To) set thy desp'rate foote ; more hell, more horror. 
 
 More wilde, remorceless rage shall seize on thee, 
 
 Then on a Coniurey, that had heed-lesse left, 
 
 His Circles saftie, ere his Devill was layd. 
 
 Then, here's a lock, which I will hang upon thee ; 
 
 And, now I thinke on't, I will keepe thee back-wards ; 
 
 Thy lodging shall bee back-wards : thy \\alkes back-wards ; 
 
 Thy prospect — all be back-wards ; and no pleasure. 
 
 That thou shalt know, but back-wards : Nay, since you force 
 
 My honest nature, know, it is your owne 
 
 Being to open, makes me use you thus : 
 
 Since you will not containe your subtill nostrills 
 
 In a sweete roome, but, they must snuffe the ayre 
 
 Of ranke, and sweaty passengers — One knocks. 
 
 Away, and be not seene, paine ot thy lite ; 
 
 Not looke toward the windoru : it thou dost — • 
 
 (Nay stay, heare this) let me not prosper. Whore, 
 
 But I will make thee an Auatoniy^ 
 
 Dissect thee mine owne selfe, and read a lecture 
 
 Upon thee, to the citty, and in publique. 
 
 Away. Who's there ? 
 
 SERVITORE. 
 
 'Tis Signior Moscd, Sir. 
 
 76
 
 THE l<OXE 
 
 ACT 2. SCENE 6. 
 
 CORVINO. MOSCA. 
 
 Let him coinc in, his master's dead : there's yet, 
 Some good, to helpe the bad. My Mosca, welcome ; 
 I gesse your newes. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I feare, you cannot, Sir. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Is't not his death ^ 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Rather, the contrary. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Not his recovery ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, Sir. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I am curst, I am bewitch'd, my crosses meete to vexe mee. 
 How .'' how .'' how .'' how .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Why, Sir, with SScoto s oyle ; 
 Corbaccio, and Voltore brought of it, 
 Whilst I was busy in an inner roome 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Death ! that damn'd Montebanke ; but, for the Law, 
 
 Now, I could kill the raskall : 't cannot bee, 
 
 His oyle should have that vertue. Ha' not I 
 
 Knowne him a common rogue, come fidling in 
 
 To th' Osteria, with a tumbling whore. 
 
 And, when he ha's done all his forc'd tricks, beene glad 
 
 77
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Of a poore spoonefuU of dead wine, with flies iii't ? 
 
 It cannot bee. All his ingredients 
 
 Are a sheepes galle, a rosted bitches marrow, 
 
 Some tewe sod earewigs, pounded caterpillers, 
 
 A little capons grease, and fasting spitle : 
 
 I know 'hem, to a dram. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I know not, Sir ; 
 
 But some on't, there, they pour'd into his eares, 
 Some in his nostrills, and recover'd him ; 
 Applying but the fricace. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Pox o' that fricace. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And since, to seeme the more officious 
 
 And flatt'ring of his health, there, they have had, 
 
 (At extreme fees) the Colledge of Physitians 
 
 Consulting on him, how they might restore him ; 
 
 Where, one would have a cataplasme of spices. 
 
 Another a flead Ape clapt to his brest, 
 
 A third would ha'it a Dog, a fourth an oyle. 
 
 With wild Catts skinnes: At last, they all resolv'd 
 
 That, to preserve him, was no other meanes 
 
 But some young woman must be streight sought out, 
 
 Lusty, and full of iuice, to sleepe by him ; 
 
 And, to this service (most unhappily. 
 
 And most unwillingly) am I now imploy'd. 
 
 Which, here, I thought to pre-acquaint you with, 
 
 For your advise, since it concernes you most, 
 
 Because, I would not do that thing might crosse 
 
 Your ends, on whom I have my whole dependance, Sir 
 
 Yet if I do it not, they may delate 
 
 My slackncsse to my Patron, worke me out 
 
 Ot his opinion ; antl thei'e, all your hopes, 
 
 78
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Venters, 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 intreat you, breefly, conclude some-what : 
 
 Prevent 'hem if you can. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Death to my hopes ! 
 
 This is my villainous fortune ! Best to hire 
 
 Some common Curtezan ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I, I thought on that, Sir. 
 But they are all so subtle, full of art — 
 And age againe, doting, and flexible, 
 So as — I cannot tell — we may perchance 
 Light on a queane, may cheate us all. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Tis true. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No, no : it must be one, that has no tricks. Sir, 
 
 Some simple thing, a creature, made unto it ; 
 
 Some wench you may command. Ha' you no kinswoman .'' 
 
 Gods so — Thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke. Sir 
 
 One o' the Doctors ofl^er'd, there, his daughter. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 How ! 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, Signior Lupo, the Physitian. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 His daughter ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And a virgin, Sir. Why .'' Alasse, 
 
 He knowes the state of 's body, what it is ; 
 
 79
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 That nought can warme his bloud, Sir, but z fever ; 
 Nor any incantation raise his spirit : 
 A long forgetfuhiesse hath seiz'd that part. 
 Besides, Sir, who shall know it ? some one, or two. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I pray thee give me leave : If any man 
 But I had had this luck — The thing in't selfe, 
 I know, is nothing — Wherefore should not I 
 As well command my bloud, and my affections. 
 As this dull Doctor ? In the point of honor, 
 The cases are all one, of wife, and daughter. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I heare him comming. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 She shall doo't : 'Tis done. 
 
 Slight, if this Doctor, that is not engag'd, 
 
 Unlesse 't bee for his councell (which is nothing) 
 
 Offer his daughter, what should I, that am 
 
 So deepely in ^ I will prevent him, wretch ! 
 
 Covetous wretch ! Mosca, I have determin'd. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 How, Sir? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Wee'U make all sure. The party, you wot of. 
 Shall be mine own wife, Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir. The thing, 
 
 (But that I would not scenic to councell you) 
 
 1 shoulii ha\'c niotioiiM to you at tlic first : 
 
 And, make your count, you have cut all their throtes. 
 
 Why ! 'I'is directly taking a possession 1 
 
 And, in his next fit, we may let him go. 
 
 "Tis liut to pul the pillow, from his heaii, 
 
 80
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 And he is thratled : 't h;id Ik'ciil- done, before, 
 But tor your scrupulous doubts. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 1, a plague on't. 
 
 My conscience fooles my wit. Well, lie be briefe. 
 
 And so be thou, least they should be before us : 
 
 Go home, prepare him, tell him, with what zeale, 
 
 And willingnesse, I do it ; sweare it was, 
 
 On the first hearing, (as thou mayst do, truely) 
 
 Mine own free motion, 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, I warrant you, 
 
 He so possesse him with it, that the rest 
 
 Of his sterv'd clients, shall be banisht, all ; 
 
 And only you receiv'd. But come not, Sir, 
 
 Untill I send, for I have something else 
 
 To ripen, for your good (you must not know't) 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 But do not you forget to send, now. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Feare not. 
 
 ACT 2. SCENE 7. 
 
 CORVINO. CELIA. 
 
 Where are you, wife ? my Celia ? wife .? What, blubbering I 
 Come, drye those teares. I thinke, thou thought'st mee in earnest.? 
 Ha.'' by this light, I talk'd so but to trie thee. 
 Me thinkes, the lightnesse of the occasion 
 Should ha' confirm'd thee. Come, I am not iealous. 
 CELIA. 
 
 No.? 
 
 81
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Faith, I am not I, nor never was : 
 
 It is a poor, unprofitable humor. 
 
 Do not I know, if women have a will, 
 
 They'll doo 'gainst all the watches, o' the world ? 
 
 And that the feircest spies, are tam'd with gold ? 
 
 Tut, I am confident in thee, thou shalt see't : 
 
 And see, He give thee cause too, to beleeve it. 
 
 Come, Icisse mee. Go, and make thee ready straight, 
 
 In all thy best attire, thy choicest iewells. 
 
 Put 'hem all on, and, with 'hem, thy best lookes : 
 
 We are invited to a solemne feast, 
 
 At old J^olpone s^ where it shall appeare 
 
 How far I am free, from iealousie, or feare. 
 
 82
 
 ACT ^ SCENE I 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O^CA. 
 
 I Feare, I shall begin 
 
 to grow in love 
 With my deare selfe, 
 
 and my most pros- 
 
 p'rous parts, 
 They do so spring, 
 
 and burgeon ; I 
 
 can feele 
 A whimsey i' my 
 
 bloud : (I know 
 
 not how) 
 Successe hath made 
 
 me wanton. I 
 
 could skip 
 Out of my skinne, 
 
 now, like a subtill 
 
 snake, 
 I am so Imihcr. O ! 
 
 your Parasite 
 Is a most pretious 
 
 thing, dropt from 
 
 above, 
 
 Not bred 'mong'st clods, and clot-poules, here on earth. 
 
 I muse, the Mysterie was not made a Science, 
 
 It is so liberally profest ! Almost 
 
 All the wise world is little else, in nature, 
 
 83
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 But Parasites, or Sub-parasites. And, yet 
 
 I meane not those, that have your bare Toivne-art., 
 
 To know, who's fit to feede 'hem ; have no house, 
 
 No family, no care, and therefore mould 
 
 Tales for mens eares, to baite that sense ; or get 
 
 Kitchin-invention, and some stale receipts 
 
 To please the belly, and the groine ; nor those, 
 
 With their Co«r/-dog-trick.es, that can fawne, and fleere. 
 
 Make their revenue out of legges and faces, 
 
 Eccho my-Lord, and lick away a moath : 
 
 But your fine, elegant rascall, that can rise. 
 
 And stoope (almost together) like an arrow ; 
 
 Shoote through the aire, as nimbly as a starre ; 
 
 Turne short, as doth a swallow ; and be here. 
 
 And there, and here, and yonder, all at once ; 
 
 Present to any humour, all occasion ; 
 
 And change a visor, swifter, then a thought. 
 
 This is the creature, had the art borne with him ; 
 
 Toyles not to Icarnc it, but doth practise it 
 
 Out of most excellent nature : And such sparkes 
 
 Are the true Parasites, others but their 7janis. 
 
 ACT ^ SCENE 2. 
 
 MOSCA. BONAKIO. 
 
 Who's this ? lionarin ? old Corbaccio s sonnc ? 
 The person I was bound to seeke. Fayre Sir, 
 You are happ'lv niet. 
 
 BONAKIO. 
 
 i'hat caiuiot be, by thee. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Why, Sir.? 
 
 «4
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Nay, 'pray thee know thy way, and leave me ; 
 I would he loth to inter-change discourse 
 With such a mate, as thou art. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Curteous Sir, scorne not my poverty. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Not I, by heaven. 
 
 But thou shalt give mee leave to hate thy basenesse. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Basenesse ? 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 I, Answer me : Is not thy sloth 
 Sufficient argument ? thy flattery ? 
 Thy meanes of feeding .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Heaven, be good to me. 
 
 These imputations are too common, Sir, 
 
 And eas'ly stuck on vertue, when shee's poore ; 
 
 You are unequall to me, and how ere 
 
 Your sentence may be righteous, yet you are not. 
 
 That ere you know me, thus, proceed in censure : 
 
 St. Marke bear witnesse 'gainst you, 'tis inhumane. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 What .'' do's he weepe .' the signe is soft, and good : 
 I do repent mee, that I was so harsh. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 'Tis true, that, sway'd by strong necessity, 
 I am enforc'd to eate my carefull bread 
 With too much obsequy ; 'tis true, beside. 
 That I am faine to spin mine owne poore rayment. 
 Out of my mere observance, being not borne, 
 
 85
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 To a free fortune : but that I have done 
 
 Base offices, in rending friends asunder, 
 
 Dividing families, betraying councells. 
 
 Whispering false lies, or mining men with prayses, 
 
 Train'd their credulitie with periuries. 
 
 Corrupted chastity, or am in love 
 
 With mine owne tender ease, but would not rather 
 
 Prove the most rugged, and laborious course, 
 
 That might redeeme, my present estimation ; 
 
 Let me here perish, in all hope of goodnesse. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 This cannot be a personated passion. 
 
 I was to blame, so to mistake thy nature ; 
 
 'Pray thee forgive mee : and spealce out thy bus'nesse. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, it concernes you ; and though I may seeme. 
 At first, to make a maine offence, in manners. 
 And in my gratitude, unto my maister. 
 Yet, for the pure love, which I beare all right, 
 And hatred ni the wrong, I must reveale it. 
 This very houre, your father is in purpose 
 To disinherit you 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 How .? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And thrust you forth. 
 
 As a mere stranger to his bloud ; 'tis true. Sir : 
 The workc no way ingageth nice, but, as 
 I claime an interest in the general! state 
 Of goodnesse, and true vertue, which 1 heare 
 T' abounti in you : ami, for which mere resjiect, 
 Withf)Ut a second aynie. Sir, I have clone it. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 This tale hath lost thee niiRh of the late trust, 
 
 86
 
 THE l<OXE 
 
 Thou hadst with mc ; it is impossible : 
 I know not how to lend it any thought, 
 My father should be so unnatural!. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 It is a confidence, that well becomes 
 
 Your piety ; and form'd (no doubt) it is. 
 
 Prom your owne simple innocence : which makes 
 
 Your wrong more monstrous, and abhor'd. But, Sir, 
 
 1 now, will tell you more. This very minute, 
 
 It is, or will be doing : And, if you 
 
 Shall be but pleas'd to goe with me, He bring you, 
 
 (I dare not say where you shall see, but) where 
 
 Your eare shall be a witnesse of the deed ; 
 
 Heare your selfe written Bastard; and profest 
 
 The common issue of the earth. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 I'm maz'd. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, if I do it not, draw your iust sword, 
 
 And score your vengeance, on my front, and face ; 
 
 Marke me your villayne : You have too much wrong. 
 
 And I do suffer for you. Sir. My heart 
 
 Weepes bloud, in anguish 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Lead. I follow thee. 
 
 ACT ^ SCENE ^ 
 
 VOLPONE. NANO. ANDROGYNO. CASTRONE. 
 
 Mosca stayes long, me thinkes. Bring forth your sports 
 And helpe, to make the wretched time more sweete. 
 
 87
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 NANO. 
 
 Dwarfe, Foole, and Eunuch, well mett here wee bee. 
 A question it were now., whether of us three, 
 Beiftg, all, the knowne delicates, of a rich man. 
 In pleasing him, claime the precedency can ? 
 
 CASTRONE. 
 
 / claime for my selfe. 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 And, so doth the Foole. 
 
 NANO. 
 
 Tis foolish indeed : let me set you both to schoole. 
 
 First, for your Dwarfe, hee's little, and witty. 
 
 And, everything, as it is little, is pritty ; 
 
 Else, why do men say to a creature (of my shape) 
 
 So soone as they see him, it's a pritty little Ape ? 
 
 And, why a pritty Ape ? but for pleasing imitation 
 
 Of greater mens action, in a ridiculous fashion. 
 
 Beside, this feat body of mine doth not crave 
 
 Halfe the meat, drinke, and cloth, one of your bulkes will have. 
 
 Admit your Foole's face be the Mother of laughter. 
 
 Yet, for his braine, it must alwaies come after : 
 
 And, though that do feede him, it's a pittifull case. 
 
 His body is beholding to such a bad face. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Who's there ? my couch, Away, looke Nano, see : 
 Give nic my cappes first — go, enquire. Now, Cupid 
 Send it be Mosca, and with faire returne. 
 
 NANO. 
 
 It is the beauteous madam 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 JVould-bee ? is it .'' 
 
 NANO. 
 
 The same.
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Now, torment on nice ; squire her in : 
 For she will enter, or dwell here for ever. 
 Nay, quickly. That my fit were past. I feare 
 A second hell too, that my loathing this 
 \\'\\\ quite expell my appetite to the other : 
 Would she were taking, now, her tedious leave. 
 Lord, how it threates mee, what I am to suffer ! 
 
 ACT ^ SCENE 4. 
 
 LADY. VOLPONE. NANO. WOMEN 2. 
 
 I thanke you, good Sir. 'Pray you signifie 
 Unto your Patron, I am here. This band 
 Shewes not my neck inough (I trouble you, Sir ; 
 Let me request you, bid one of my women 
 Come hether to mee). In good faith, I, am drest 
 Most favourably, to day, it is no matter, 
 'Tis well inough. 
 
 Looke, see, these petulant things. 
 How they have done this ! 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I do feele the Fever 
 
 Ent'ring in at mine eares ; O, for a charme. 
 
 To fright it hence. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Come nearer : Is this curie 
 
 In his right place .'' or this .'' Why is this higher 
 
 Then all the rest ? You ha' not wash'd your eies, yet .'' 
 
 Or do they not stand even i' your head ? 
 
 Where's your fellow ? call her. 
 
 89 M
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 NANO. 
 
 Now, St. Marke deliver us : anone, she'll beate her women, 
 Because her nose is red. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I pray you, view 
 
 This tire, forsooth ; are all things apt, or no ? 
 
 I WOMAN. 
 
 One haire a little, here, sticks out, forsooth. 
 
 LADY POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Do's't so, forsooth : and where was your deare sight. 
 When it did so, forsooth.? What now.-" bird-eyd .'' 
 And you, too .'' 'pray you, both approach, and mend it, 
 Now (by that light) I muse yo' are not asham'd, 
 I, that have preach'd these things, so oft, unto you, 
 Read you the principles, argu'd all the grounds, 
 Disputed every fitnesse, every grace, 
 Call'd you to councell of so frequent dressings 
 
 NANO. 
 
 (More carefully then of your fame, or honor.) 
 
 LADY POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Made you acquainted, what an ample dowry 
 The knowledge of these things would be unto you. 
 Able, alone, to get you Noble husbands 
 At your returne : and y<iu, thus, to neglect it .'' 
 Besides, you seeing what a curious Nation 
 Th' heliums are, what will they say of mee } 
 The English Lady cannot drcssc her sclfe ; 
 Here's a fine imputation, to our Country : 
 Well, goe your waies, and stay, i' the next roome. 
 This fucus was too course too ; it's no matter. 
 Good-Sir, you'll give 'hem entertaynement .'' 
 VOLPONl^. 
 
 The storme comes towani me. 
 
 90
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 How do's mv J-^olp. ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Troubled with noyse, I cannot sleepe ; I dreamt 
 That a strange Fm-y entered, now, my house, 
 And, with the dreadfull tempest of her breath, 
 Did cleave my roofe asunder. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Beleeve me, and I 
 
 Had the most tearetull dreame, could I remember 't 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Out on my fate ; I ha' giv'n her the occasion 
 How to torment mee : she will tell me hers. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Me thought, the golden Mediocrity, 
 Polite, and delicate 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O, if you do love mee. 
 
 No more : I sweate, and suffer, at the mention 
 
 Of any dreame : feele how I tremble yet. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Alasse, good soule ! the Passion of the heart. 
 Seede-pearle were good now, boild with sirroppe of Apples, 
 'Tincture of Gold, and Currall, Citron-Pills, 
 
 Your Elicampane roote, Myrobalanes 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Ay me, I have tane a grasse hopper by the wing. 
 
 L.1DY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Burnt si Ike and Amber. You have Muscadell 
 Good i' the house 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 You will not drinke, and part } 
 
 91
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 No, feare not that. I doubt, wee shall not get 
 Some English saffron (halte a dram would serve) 
 Your sixteene Cloves, a little Mitske, dri'd Mintes ; 
 Buglosse, and barley -me ale 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Shee's in againe. 
 
 Before I fayn'd diseases, now I have one. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 And these appli'd, with a right scarlet-cloth 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Another floud of words ! a very torrent ! 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Shall I, Sir, make you a Poultice ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 No, no, no ; 
 
 I'm very well : you neede prescribe no more. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I have, a little, studied Physick \ but, now, 
 I'm all for Mitsiqiie, save, i' the torenoones. 
 An houre, or two, for Paynting. I would have 
 A Lady, indeed, t' have all. Letters, and Artes, 
 Be able to discourse, to write, to paynt, 
 But principal! (as Plato holds) your Musiqiie 
 (And, so do's wise Pythagoras, I take it) 
 Is your true ra)iture ; when there is concent 
 In face, in voice, in clothes : and is, indeed. 
 Our sex's chiefest ornament. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 The Port 
 
 As okl in time as Plato, antl as knowing. 
 
 Say's that your highest female grace is Silence. 
 
 92
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Which o' your Poets t Petrarch ? or Tasso ^ or Dante ? 
 
 Guari>ii ? Ariosto ? Aret'ine ? 
 
 Cieco di Hadria ? I have read them all. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Is everything a cause, to my distructioii ? 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I thinke I ha' two or three of 'hem, about mee. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 The sunne, the sea will sooner, both, stand still. 
 Than her aeternall tongue ; nothing can scape it. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Here's Pastor-Fido 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Professe obstinate silence, 
 That's, now, my safest. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 All our English Writers, 
 
 I meane such, as are happy in th' Italian, 
 
 Will deigne to steale out of this Author, mainely ; 
 
 Almost as much, as from Montagnie ; 
 
 He has so moderne, and facile a veine. 
 
 Fitting the time, and catching the Co«r/-eare. 
 
 Your Petrarch is more passionate, yet he, 
 
 In dayes of Sonnetting, trusted 'hem, with much : 
 
 Dante is hard, and ^z^n^ can understand him. 
 
 But, for a desperate wit, there's Aretine ; 
 
 Onely, his pictures are a little obscene 
 
 You marke mee not. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Alasse, my mind's perturb'd. 
 
 93
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Why, in such cases, we must cure ourselves. 
 Make use ot our Philosophie 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O' av mee. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 And as we finde our passions do rebell, 
 
 Encounter 'hem with reason ; or divert 'hem, 
 
 By giving scope unto some other humour 
 
 Of lesser danger : As, in politique bodyes. 
 
 There's nothing, more, doth overwhelme the iudgment, 
 
 And cloud the understanding, then too much 
 
 Setling, and fixing, and (as 'twere) subsiding 
 
 Upon one object. For the incorporating 
 
 Of these same outward things, into that part, 
 
 Which we call mental I, leaves some certaine f.rces. 
 
 That stop the organs, and, as Vlato sayes, 
 
 Assassinates our knowledge. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Now, the spirit 
 
 Of patience helpe mee. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Come, in taith, I must 
 
 Visit vou more, a dayes ; and make you well : 
 
 Laugh, and be lusty. 
 
 X'OLPONE. 
 
 My good Angell save mee. 
 
 i.ADY poi.rrioLi]<: would-bee. 
 
 There was but one sole man, in all the world, 
 With whom I ere could sympathize ; and hee 
 Would lie you, often, three, foure houres together. 
 To heare me speake : and be (sometime) so rap't, 
 As he would answer mee, quite from the purpose, 
 
 94
 
 THK FOXE 
 
 Like N'ou, and \'()u arc like hini, iiist. He discourse 
 (An't lie hut only, Sir, to bring you asleepe) 
 How did we spend our time, and loves, together. 
 For some six yeares 
 
 \OLPONE. 
 
 Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 For we were Cod'tanei, and brought up 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Some power, some fate, some fortLuie rescue mee. 
 
 ACT ]. SCENE ;. 
 
 MOSCA. LADY. VOLPONE. 
 
 God save you, Madam. 
 
 LADY POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Good sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Mosca ? welcome, welcome to my redemption. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Why, Sir.? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Oh, rid me of this my torture, quickly, there ; 
 My Madam, with the everlasting voyce : 
 The Bells, in time of pestilence, nere made 
 Like noyse, or were in that perpetuall motion ; 
 The Cock-pit comes not neare it. All my house, 
 But now, steam'd like a bath, with her thicke breath. 
 A Lawyer could not have beene heard ; nor scarce 
 Another W^oman, such a hayle of words 
 She has let tall. For hells sake, ridd her hence. 
 
 95
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Has she presented ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Oh, I do not care, 
 
 lie take her absence, upon any price. 
 
 With any losse. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Madam. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 I ha' brought your Patron 
 A toy, a cap here, of mine owne worke 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Tis well. I had forgot to tell you, I saw your Knight, 
 Where you'ld little thinke it 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Where t 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Marry, where yet, if you make hast, you may apprehend him. 
 
 Rowing upon the water in a gondole., 
 
 With the most cunning Curtizan of Venice. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BliE. 
 
 Is't true .' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Pursue 'hcni, and belceve your eyes : 
 
 Leave mee, to make your gift. 
 
 I knew, 'twould take. 
 
 For, lightly, they, that use themselves most licence 
 
 Are still most iealous. 
 
 \'OLPONE. 
 
 Mosca, hearty thanks. 
 
 For thy quick fiction, anel deli\er\' ot mee. 
 
 Now, to my hopes, what saist thou ^ 
 
 96
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 But do you hcare, Sir? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Againe ; I feare a paroxisme. 
 
 LADY POLiriOLJE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Which way row'd they together ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Toward the Rialto. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE W^OULD-BEE. 
 
 I pray you, lend me your Dwarfe. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I pray you, take him 
 
 Your hopes, Sir, are lilce happy blossomes, fayre. 
 And promise timely fruict, if you will stay 
 But the maturing ; keepe you, at your couch, 
 Corbaccio will arrive straight, with the Will : 
 W^hen he is gone. He tell you more. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 My bloud, my spirits are return'd ; I am alive : 
 And, like your wanton gam'ster, at Primero, 
 Whose thought had whisper'd to him >iot go lesse. 
 Me thinkes I lie, and drawe for an encounter. 
 
 ACT 3. SCENE 6. 
 
 MOSCA. BONARIO. 
 
 Sir, here conceal'd you may heare all. But 'pray you. 
 Have patience, Sir — the same's your father, knocks : 
 I am compeld to leave you. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Do so. Yet, cannot my thought imagine this a truth. 
 
 97
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 ACT }. SCENE 7. 
 
 MOSCA. CORVINO. CELIA. BONARIO. VOLPONE. 
 
 Death on me ! you are come to sooiie, what meant you ? 
 Did not I say, I would send ? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Yes, but I feard you might forget it, and then they prevent us. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Prevent .'' Did ere man hast so, for his homes .? 
 A Courtier would not ply it so, for a place. 
 Well, now there's no helping it, stay here ; 
 He presently returne. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Where are you, Celia ? 
 
 You know not, wherefore I have brought you hether .'' 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Not well, except you told mee. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Now, I will : harke hether. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, your father hath sent word. 
 
 It will be halfe an houre, ere he come ; 
 
 And therefore, if you please to walke, the while. 
 
 Into that gallery — at the upper end. 
 
 There are some bookes to entertaine the time : 
 
 And lie take care, no man shall come unto you, Sir. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Yes, I will stav there ; I do doubt this fellow, 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 There ; he is farre inough : he can heare nothing : 
 And, for his father, I can keepe him of. 
 
 98
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Nay, now, there is no starting back ; ani.1 therefore, 
 Resolve upon it : I have so decre'ed. 
 It must be done. Nor, would I move't afore, 
 Because 1 would avoyd all shifts and tricks, 
 That might deny mee. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Sir, let mee beseech you, 
 
 Affect not these strange trialls ; if you doubt 
 
 My chastity, why lock me up, for ever : 
 
 Make me the heyre of darkenesse. Let me live. 
 
 Where I may please yours feares, if not your trust. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Beleeve it, I have no such himior, I. 
 All that I speake I meane ; yet I am not mad : 
 Not horne-mad, see you ? Go too, shew your selfe 
 Obedient, and a wife. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 heaven ! 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 1 say it, do so. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Was this the traine ? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I'have told you reasons ; 
 
 What the Pliisilians have set downe ; how much, 
 
 It may concerne mee ; what my ingagements are ; 
 
 My meanes ; and the necessity of those meanes, 
 
 For my recovery : wherefore, if you bee 
 
 Loyall, and mine, be wonne, respect my venture. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Before your honour } 
 
 99
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Honour ? tut, a breath ; 
 
 There's Jio such thing, in nature : a mere terme 
 
 Invented to awe fooles. What is my gold 
 
 The worse, for touching ? clothes, for being loolc'd on ? 
 
 Why, this's no more. An old, decrepite wretch, 
 
 That ha's no sense, no sinewe ; takes his meate 
 
 With others fingers ; onely knowes to gape. 
 
 When you do scald his gummes ; a voice ; a shadow ; 
 
 And, what can this man hurt you ? 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Lord ! what spirit is this hath entred him ? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 And tor your tame. 
 
 That's such a ligge ; as if I would go tell it, 
 Crie it, on the Piazza ! who shall know it ? 
 But hee, that cannot speake it ; anci this fellow. 
 Whose lippes are i' my pocket : save yourselfe, 
 If you'll proclaimc't, you may. I know no other. 
 Should come to knowe it. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Are heaven and. Saints then nothing .^ 
 Will they be bli?id, or stupide .'' 
 
 CORVINO. 
 How ^ 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Good Sir, be iealous stil, a'mulate them ; and thinke 
 What hate they burne with, toward evei-y sinne, 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I graunt you ; if I thought it were a sinne, 
 
 I would not urge you. Should I offer this 
 
 To some young Frenchman^ or hot "Tiisca/ir bloud, 
 
 That had read ./re/ine, conncLi all liis prii/Ws, 
 
 100
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Knew every quirke within lusts Laboriiitli, 
 
 And were protest Critique, in lechery ; 
 
 And I would lookc upon him, and applaud him, 
 
 This were a sinne : hut here, tis contrary, 
 
 A pious worke, mere charity, for Physick, 
 
 And honest politic, to assure mine owiie. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 O heaven ; canst thou suffer such a change ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Thou art mine honor, Mosca, and my pride. 
 
 My ioy, my tickling, my delight : go bring 'hem. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Please you drawe neare, Sir. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Come on, what 
 
 You will not be rebellious? by that light 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, signior Corvino, here, is come to see you, 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Oh. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And, hearing of the consultation had. 
 
 So lately, for you health, is come to offer. 
 
 Or rather, Sir, to prostitute- 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Thankes, sweete Mosca, 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Freely, un-ask'd, or un-intreated 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Well. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 (As the true, fervent instance of his love) 
 
 lOI
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 His owiie most faire, and proper wife ; the beauty, 
 
 Onely of price, in Venice 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 'Tis well urg'd. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 To bee your comfortresse, and to preserve you. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Alasse, I am past already. 'Pray you, thanke 'him 
 
 For his good care, and promptnesse. But tor that, 
 
 Tis a vaine labour, eene to fight, 'gainst heaven ; 
 
 Applying fire to a stone : (uh, uh, iih, uh) 
 
 Making a dead leafe grow againe. 1 take 
 
 His wishes gently, though ; and, you may tell him 
 
 What I have done for him : Mary, my state is hopelesse. 
 
 Will him, to pray for mee ; and t'use his fortune, 
 
 With reverence, when he comes to it. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Do you heare. Sir r 
 
 Go to him, with \-our wife. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Heart of my father ! 
 
 Wilt thou persist thus ^ Come, I pray thee, come. 
 Thovi seest 'tis nothing : Celia. By this hand, 
 I shall gi-(nv violent. Come, do't, I say. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Sir, kill mee, rather : I will take downe poyson, 
 Kate burning coales, do anything 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Be damn'd. (Heart) I will drag thee hence, home by the haire ; 
 Cry thee a strumpet, through the streetes ; rip u[i 
 Thy mouth, unto thine cares; and slit th\' nose, 
 Like a raw rotchet — Do not tempt mee, come, 
 '^'eld, 1 am loth — (Death) 1 will buy some slave, 
 
 102
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Whom I will kill, and hindc thcc to him, alive ; 
 And, at mv windort-, hang you forth : devising 
 Some monstrous crime, which I, in capital letters, 
 Will eate into thy flesh, with Aqua-fortis, 
 And burning corsives, on this stubborne brest. 
 Now, by the bloud, thou hast incens'd. He doo't. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Sir, what you please, you may, I am your Martyr. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Bee not thus obstinate, I ha' not deserv'd it : 
 
 Thinke, who it is, intreats you. 'Pray thee, sweete ; 
 
 (Good faith) thou shalt have iewells, gownes, attires, 
 
 What thou' wilt thinke, and aske. Do, but, goe kisse him. 
 
 Or touch him, but. For my sake. At my sute. 
 
 This once. No .'' Not .'' I shall remember this. 
 
 Will you disgrace mee, thus.'' Do' you thirst my' undoing.'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Nay, gentle Lady, bee advis'd. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 No, no. 
 
 She has watch'd her time. God's precious — this is skirvy ; 
 
 'Tis very skirvie : And you are 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Nay, good Sir. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 An errant Locust, by heaven, a Locust. 
 Whore, Crocodile, that hast thy teares prepar'd, 
 Expecting how, thou'lt bid them flow 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Nay, 'pray you. Sir. Shee will consider. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Would my lite would serve 
 Tf) satisfie ■ 
 
 103
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 (S'death) If she would but speake to him, 
 And save my reputation, 'twere somewhat ; 
 But, spightfully to affect my utter ruine : 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I, now you' have put your fortune, m her hands. 
 Why i'faith, it is her modesty, I must quit her. 
 If you were absent, shee would be more comming ; 
 I know it : and dare luidertake for her. 
 What woman can, before her husband .'' 'p^^Y y*-"-'' 
 Let us departe, and leave her, here. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Sweete Celia, 
 
 Thou mayst redeeme all yet ; He say no more : 
 
 If not, esteeme yourselfe as lost, — Nay, stay there. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 O God, and his good Angells ! whether, whether, 
 Is shame fled humane brests .'' that, with such ease. 
 Men dare put off your honoi-s, and their owne } 
 Is that, which ever was a cause ot life. 
 Now plac'd beneath the basest circumstance .'' 
 And modesty an exile made, for money .'' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I, in Corvino, and such earth-fed mmdes. 
 That never tasted the true heav'n of love. 
 Assure thee, Celia, he that would sell thee, 
 Onely for hope of gaine, and that imcertaine. 
 He would have sold his part of Paradise 
 Vor ready money, had he met a Cope-man. 
 AVhy art thou nia/.\i, to sec me thus rc\i\'\i ^ 
 Rather, applaud thy lieauties miracle ; 
 'Tis thy great worke : that liath, not now alone, 
 Hut suiuirv times 'rays'd mee, in several! shapes, 
 
 104
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 And, but this morning, like a Mountebanke, 
 To see thee at thy windore. I, before 
 I would have left my practise, for thy love, 
 In varying figures, I would have contended 
 With the blew Proteus, or the horned Floiid. 
 Now, art thou welcome. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Nay, flie niee not ; 
 
 Nor, let thy false imagination 
 
 That I was bedrid, make thee thinke, I am so : 
 
 Thou shalt not find it. I am now, as fresh, 
 
 As hot, as high, and in as loviall plight, 
 
 As, when (in that so celebrated Scene, 
 
 At recitation of our Coma-die, 
 
 Eor entertayment of the great Faloys) 
 
 I acted young Antinous ; and attracted 
 
 The eyes, and eares of all the Ladies, present, 
 
 T' admire each gracefull gesture, note, and footing. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Come, mv Celia, let us prove. 
 While zve can, the sports of love ; 
 Time will not be ours, for ever. 
 He, at length, our good will sever ; 
 Spend not then his guiftes, in vaine. 
 Sunnes, that set, may rise againe : 
 But if, once, we loose this light, 
 'Tis with us perpetual I night. 
 Why should wee deferre our joyes ? 
 Fame, and rumor are but toves. 
 Cannot wee delude the eyes 
 Of a few poore houshold-spies ? 
 
 iot
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Or Ills easier eares beguile, 
 
 •■Tliiis remooved, by our wile ? 
 
 Tis no sinne, loves fruicts to steak ; 
 
 But the sweete thefts to r eve ale : 
 
 To be take?!, to be seene, 
 
 These have crimes accounted beene. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Some serene blast me, or dire lightning strike 
 This my offending face. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Why droopes my Celia ? 
 
 Thou hast, in place of a base husband, tound 
 
 A worthy lover : use thv fortune well. 
 
 With secrecy, and pleasure. See, behold, 
 
 What thou art Queene of ; not in expectation. 
 
 As I feede others : but possess'd, and crown'd. 
 
 See, here, a rope of pearle ; and each, more orient 
 
 Than the brave .-Egiptian Clueene carrous'd : 
 
 Dissolve, and drink 'hem. See, a Carbuncle, 
 
 May put out both the eyes of our St. Marke ; 
 
 A Diamant would have bought Lollia Paulina, 
 
 When she came in, like star-light, hid with iewells. 
 
 That were the spoyles of Provinces ; take these, 
 
 And weare, and loose 'hem : Yet, remaines an Eare-ruig 
 
 To purchase them againe, and this whole State. 
 
 A Gem, but worth a private patrimony. 
 
 Is nothing: we wdl eate such at a meale. 
 
 The heads of jiarrots, tongues of nightingalles. 
 
 The braynes ot peacocks, ami ut esti-iches 
 
 Shall be our foode : and, could we get the pha-nix, 
 
 (Though Nature lost her kind) she were our dish. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 Cjood Sir, these things might move a miiule aftecteii 
 With such ilelights ; but I, whose innocence 
 
 1 06
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Is all I can thinke wealthy, or worth th' enjoying, 
 And, which once lost, I have nought to lose beyond :t. 
 Cannot be taken with these sensiiall baytes : 
 If you have conscience 
 
 VOLPONl-:. 
 
 'Tis the beggar's vertue, 
 
 If thou hast wisdome, heare me, Celia. 
 
 Thy bathes shall be the iuyce ot /«/v-flowers. 
 
 Spirit of roses, and ot violets, 
 
 The milke of unicornes, and panthers breath 
 
 Gather'd in bagges, and mixt with Cretan wines. 
 
 Our drinke shall be prepared gold, and amber ; 
 
 Which we will take, untill my roofe whirll round 
 
 With the vertigo : and my Dwarfe shall dance. 
 
 My EioiKcIi sing, my Foole make up the antique. 
 
 Whilst, we, in changed shapes, act Ovids tales. 
 
 Thou, like Eiiropa now, and I like love. 
 
 Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine, 
 
 So, of the rest, till we have t^uite run through, 
 
 And weary'd all the fables of the Gods. 
 
 Then will I have thee, in more moderne formes. 
 
 Attired like some sprightly Dame of France, 
 
 Brave Tuscan Lady, or proud Spanish Beautie ; 
 
 Sometimes, unto the Persian Sophies wife ; 
 
 Or the grand-Signiors Mistresse, and, for change. 
 
 To one of our most arte-fuU Curtezans, 
 
 Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian ; 
 
 And I will meete thee, in as many shapes : 
 
 Where we may, so, trans-fuse our wandring soules 
 
 Out at our lippes, and score up summes of pleasures, 
 
 That the curious shall not know 
 How to tell them, as they flow ; 
 And the envious, when they find 
 IVhat their number is, be pind. 
 
 107
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 If you have eares, that will be pierc'd — or eyes, 
 That can be open'd — a heart, may be touched — 
 Or any part, that yet sounds ma>K about you — 
 If you have touch of holy Saints — or Heaven — 
 Do mee the grace to let me 'scape — if not. 
 Be bountitull and kill mee, you do knowe, 
 I am a creature, hether ill betray'd, 
 By one, whose shame I would forget it were — 
 If you will daigne mee neither of these graces. 
 Yet feede your wrath. Sir, rather than your lust — 
 (It is a vice, comes nearer manlinesse) 
 And punish that unhappy crime of nature. 
 Which you miscall my beauty. Flea my tace. 
 Or poison it, with oyntments, for seducing 
 Your bloud to this rebellion — Rub these hands, 
 With what may cause an eating leprosie, 
 E'ene to my bones, and marrow — Anything 
 l^hat may dis-tavour mee, save in my honour — 
 And I will kneele to you, 'pray for you, pay downe 
 A thousand howrely vowes, Sir, for your health — - 
 Report, and thinke you vertuous 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Thinke me cold, 
 
 Frozen, and impotent, and so re|"iort me? 
 
 That 1 had Nestor s hernia, thou wouldst thinke. 
 
 I do degenerate, and abuse my Nation, 
 
 To play with opportunity, thus long : 
 
 I should have done the act, and then have parlee'd. 
 
 Yeeld, or lie force thee. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 O, just Ciod. 
 
 \01,P0NE. 
 
 In vauie- 
 
 io8
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 h'orbeare, toule ravishcr, lihidinous swine, 
 Free the forc'd lady, cr thou dy'st, Impostor. 
 But that I am loth to snatch thy punishment 
 Out of the hand of luslia', thou shouldst, yet, 
 Be made the timely sacrifice of vengeance. 
 Before this Altar, and this drosse, thy Idoll. 
 Lady, lets quit the place, it is the den 
 Of villany ; teare nought, yt)u have a guard : 
 And he, ere long, shall meete his iust reward. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 F'all on mee, roote, and bury mee in mine. 
 Become my grave, that wert my shelter. O, 
 I am un-masqu'd, im-spirited, un-done, 
 Betray 'd to beggary, to infamy • 
 
 ACT ^ SCENE 8. 
 
 MOSCA. VOLPONE. 
 
 Where shall 1 runne, most wretched shame of men, 
 To beate out my un-luckie braines.'' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Here, here. 
 
 What .'' dost thou bleede ^ 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, that his well-driv'n sword 
 
 Had been so curteous, to have cleft me downe. 
 
 Unto the navill, ere I liv'd to see 
 
 My life, my hopes, my spirits, my Patron, all 
 
 Thus desperately engaged, by my error. 
 
 log
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Woe, on thy fortune. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And my tollies, Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Thou hast made mee miserable. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And my selfe. Sir, 
 
 Who would have thought, he would have harken'd, so ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 What shall wee doe .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I know not, if my heart 
 
 Could expiate the mischance, Il'd pluck it out. 
 
 Will you be pleas'd to hang mee .'' or cut my throate .'' 
 
 And He requite you, Sir. Let's die like Romanes, 
 
 Since wee have liv'd, like Grecians. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Hearke, who's there } 
 I heare some footing, Officers, the Sajfi, 
 Come to apprehend us ! I do feele the brand 
 Hissing, already, at my tore-head : now 
 Mine eares are boring. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 To yoiu" couch. Sir, \ru 
 
 Make that |ilace go(xi, however. 
 
 (juilty men suspect, what they deserve still. Signior Corhaccio! 
 
 no
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 ACT 3. SCENE 9. 
 
 CORBACCIO. MOSCA. VOLTORE. VOLPONE. 
 
 Why ! how now ? Mosca ! 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, undone, aniaz'd, Sir. 
 
 Your Sonne (I know not, by what accident) 
 Acquainted with your purpose, to my Patron, 
 Touching your Will, and making him your heire ; 
 Entred our house with violence, his sword drawne, 
 Sought for you, call'd you wretch, unnaturall, 
 Vow'd he would kill you. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Mee 1 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, and my Patron. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 This act, shall disinherit him indeed : 
 Here is the Will. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 'Tis well, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Right, and well. 
 
 Be you as carekill now, tor me. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 My life, Sir, is not more tenderd, 1 am onely yours. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 How do's he .'' will hee die shortly, think'st thou : 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I feare he'll out-last May. 
 
 Ill
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 To-dav ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No, last-nut May, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Couldst thou not gi' him a druni ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O by no meanes. Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Nay, He not hid you. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 This 's a knave, I see. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 How, Siguier Voltore ! did he hearc nice ? 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Parasite. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Who's that t O, Sir, most timely wclctJme 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Scarce, to the discovery of your tricks I tcare. 
 You are his, onelv ? and mine, also r are \iiu not : 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Who .? I, Sir ? 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 You, Sir. What devise is this ahout a Will P 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 A plot for you, Sir. 
 
 \r)i;iY)Ri',. 
 
 Come, [lut not your foysts upon me ; 1 shall scent 'hem. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Die! yon "ot heare it .'' 
 
 112
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Yes, I heare, Corbaccio 
 
 Hath made your Patron, there, his heire. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Tis true, by mv devise, drawne to it by my plot. 
 With hope 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Your Patron should reciprocate ? 
 And, you have promis'd ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 For your good, I did. Sir. 
 
 Nay, more, I told his sonne, brought, hid him here, 
 
 Where he might heare his father passe the deed ; 
 
 Being perswaded to it, by this thought. Sir, 
 
 That the unnaturallnesse, first, of the act, 
 
 And then, his fathers oft disclayming in him, 
 
 Which I did meane t' help on, would sure enrage him 
 
 To do some violence upon his parent, 
 
 On which the Law should take sufficient hold, 
 
 And you be stated in a double hope : 
 
 Truth be my comfort, and my conscience. 
 
 My onely ayme was, to dig you a fortune 
 
 Out of these two, old, rotten Sepulchers • 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 I cry thee mercy Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Worth your patience, 
 
 And your great merit. Sir. And, see the change ! 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Why ? what successe .' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Most haplesse ! you must helpe. Sir. 
 
 113 p
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Whilst wee expected th' old Raven, in comes 
 Covcino s wife, sent hether, bv her husband 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 What, with a present ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No, Sir, on visitation ; 
 
 (He telle you how, anone) and, staying long. 
 The youth, hee growes impatient, rushes forth, 
 Seizeth the lady, wound's mee, makes her sweare 
 (Or, he would murder her, that was his vow) 
 T' affirme my Patron would have done her rape : 
 Which how unlike it is, you see ! and, hence, 
 With that pretext hee's gone, t' accuse his father, 
 Defame my Patron ; defeate you 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Where's her husband ? 
 
 Let him bee sent for, streight. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, He go fetch him. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Bring him to the Scndineo. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, 1 will. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 This must be stopt. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, you do nobly, Sir. 
 
 Alasse, twas labor'd all. Sir, for your good ; 
 Nor was there want of councell, in the plot : 
 But fortune can, at any time, orethrow 
 The pruiects of a lunulred learned Cleai-krs^ Sir. 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What's that .? 
 
 1 1
 
 THK FOXE 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Wilt please you, Sir, to go along ? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Patron, go in, ami pray for our successe. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Need makes devotion : Heaven your labor blesse. 
 
 IIS
 
 ACT 4. SCENE I. 
 
 POLITIQUE. PEREGRINE. 
 
 0£r «•■ 1''^ ■ \ 
 
 ■ ■ ! ■..'.■. --F - ■ - -i'/' I 
 
 <i>AWM|j»»Ji;(j>a>jiiii fVwftrrtOg 
 
 IR POLITIQUE 
 WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I told you, Sir, it 
 was a plot : you 
 see 
 
 What observation is. 
 You m e n t i o n ' d 
 mee 
 
 For some instruc- 
 tions : I will tell 
 you, Sir, 
 
 (Since we are met, 
 here, in this luight 
 of Venice,) 
 
 Some few perticu- 
 lars, I have set 
 downe, 
 
 Onely for this meri- 
 dian, fit to be 
 knowne 
 
 Of your crude Travailer, and they are these. 
 I will not touch, Sir, at your phrnse, or clothes, 
 For they are okl. 
 
 KIX.KINE. 
 
 Sir, 1 ha\'e better. 
 
 116
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Pardon, I meant, as they are 'Theames, 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 O, Sir, proceed : He slander you no more of wit, good Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 First, for your garbe, it must be grave, and serious, 
 
 Very reserv'd, and loclc't ; not tell a secret, 
 
 On any termes, not to your father ; scarce 
 
 A fable, but with caution ; make sure choise 
 
 Both ot your company, and discourse ; beware 
 
 You never speake a truth— — - 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 How .? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Not to strangers. 
 
 For those be they, you must converse with, most ; 
 
 Others I would not know. Sir, but, at distance. 
 
 So as I still might be a saver, in 'hem : 
 
 You shall have tricks, else, past upon you, hourely. 
 
 And then, for your Religion, professe none. 
 
 But wonder, at the diversity of all ; 
 
 And, for your part, protest, were there no other 
 
 But simply the La-zves o' th' Land, you could content you : 
 
 Nic: Machiavell, and Monsieur Bodine, both 
 
 Were of this minde. Then, must you learne the use. 
 
 And handling of your silver forke, at meales. 
 
 The mettall of your glasse — These are maine matters 
 
 With your Italian, and to know the hower, 
 
 When vou must eat your melons, and your fgges. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Is that a point of State, too.'' 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Here it is, for vour Venetian, it hee see a man 
 
 117
 
 THE FO^E 
 
 Preposterous, in the least, he has him straight ; 
 Hee has : hee strippes him, He aquaint you. Sir, 
 I now have Hv'd here ('Tis some fourteene monthes) 
 Within the first wecke, of my landing here, 
 All tooke me tor a Citizen of Venice : 
 I knew the formes, so well 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 And nothing else. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I had read Contarene, tooke mee a house. 
 
 Dealt with my leives, to furnish it with moveables — 
 
 Well, it I could but find one man — one man, 
 
 To mine owne heart, whom I durst trust — I would 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 What } what. Sir } 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Make him rich ; make him a fortiuie : 
 
 He should not thinke, againe. I would command it. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 As how .'' 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 With certaine proiects, that I have : 
 AVhich, I may not discover. 
 
 PEREGRINi:. 
 
 If I had but one to wager with, I would lay odds, now, 
 1 lee tells me, instantly. 
 
 POLITIQUE W0ULD-BI':E. 
 
 One is, (and that 
 
 I care not greatly, who knowes,) to serve the Stale 
 Of Venice, with reil herrings, for three yeares, 
 ^Vnd at a certaine, rate, from Rotcrdani, 
 
 ii8
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Where I have correspondence. There's a letter, 
 Sent nie from one o' th' States, and to that purpose ; 
 He cannot write his name, but that's his marke. 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 He is a Chaundler .? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 No, a Cheesemonger. 
 
 There are some other two, with whome I treate 
 About the same negotiation ; 
 And — I will undertake it : For, tis thus, 
 He do't with ease, I'have cast it all. Your hoigh 
 Carries but three men in her, and a boy ; 
 And she shall make me three returnes, a yeare : 
 So, it there come but one of three, I save 
 If two, I can defalke : But, this is now. 
 If my mayne proiect faile. 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Then, you have others ^ 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I should be loth to draw the subtill ayre 
 Of such a place, without my thousand aymes. 
 He not dissemble. Sir, where ere I come, 
 I love to be considerative ; and, 'tis true, 
 I have at my free houres, thought upon 
 Some certaine Goods, unto the State of Venice, 
 Which I do call my Cautions : and, Sir, which 
 I meane (in hope of pension) to propound 
 To the Great Coiincell, then unto the Forty, 
 
 So to the Ten. My meanes are made already 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 By whome .? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir, one, that though his place b'obscure, 
 
 119
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Yet, he can sway, and thev will heare him. H'is 
 A Commandadore . 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 What, a common sergeant .? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir, such as they are, put it in their mouthes. 
 
 What thev should sav, sometimes : as well as greater. 
 
 I thinke I have my Jiotes, to shew you 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Good, Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 But, you shall sweare unto mee, on your gentry. 
 Not to anticipate ■ 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 I, Sir.? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Nor reveale a circumstance My paper is not with mee. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 O, but, vou can remember, Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Mv first is concerning Tinder-boxes. You must know, 
 
 No family is, here, without it's boxe ; 
 
 Now, Sir, it being so portable a thing. 
 
 Put case, that you, or I were ill affected 
 
 Unto the State : Sir, with it, in our pockets. 
 
 Might not I go into the Arsenale i' 
 
 Or you.'' come out againe? and none the wiser.'' 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Except your selfe, Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Go too, then. 1, therefore. 
 
 Advertise to the S'tii/e, how ht it were, 
 
 120
 
 TTTl' l<'OXE 
 
 That none, hut such ;is were kiiownc Patriots^ 
 Sound lovers of their country, should be sufter'd 
 T' enjoy them in their houses : And, even those, 
 Seald, at some office, ;uid at such a bignesse, 
 As might not lurke in pockets. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Admirable ! 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 My next is, how t'enquire, and be resolv'd. 
 
 By present demonstration, whether a Ship, 
 
 Newly arrived from Sana, or from 
 
 Any suspected part of all the Levanl, 
 
 Be guilty of the Plague : And, where they use 
 
 To lie out forty, fifty dayes, sometimes, 
 
 About the Lazaretto, for their triall ; 
 
 He save that charge, and losse unto the merchant. 
 
 And, in an houre, cleare the doubt. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Indeede, Sir .'' 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Or 1 will loose my labour. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 'My faith, that's much- 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Nay, Sir, conceive me. 'Twill cost mee, in onions, 
 Some thirty Liv'res 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Which is one pound sterling. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Beside my water-workes : For this I do, Sir. 
 First, I bring in your ship, 'twixt two brickwalles ; 
 (But those the State shall venter) on the one 
 I straine me a fayre tarre-paulin ; and, in that, 
 
 121
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 I stick my onions, cut in halfes : the other 
 Is full of loope-holes, out at which, I thrust 
 The noses of my bellowes ; and, those bellowes 
 I keepe, with water-workes, in perpetuall motion, 
 (Which is the easi'st matter of a hundred.) 
 Now, Sir, your onion, which doth naturally 
 Attract th' infection, and your bellowes, blowing 
 The aire upon him, will shew (instantly) 
 By his chang'd colour, if there be contagion ; 
 Or else, remaine as faire, as at the first : 
 Now 'tis knowne, 'tis nothing. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 You are right, Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 1 would, I had my note. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 'Eaith, so would I : 
 
 But you ha' done well, for once, Sir. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Were I false, or would be made so, I coLiki shew you reasons 
 How I could sell this Stale, now, to the T'urke, 
 Spite of their Cia/leys, or their 
 
 pi:ri;grine. 
 
 Pray you. Sir Pn/l. 
 
 POi JTI^UE WOULD-BEIv 
 
 I have 'hem not, aboLit mee. 
 
 PEKl'.GRINE. 
 
 'I'hat I fcar'tl. 'l'lie\' 'are there, Sii- ? 
 
 i'(ji.ri 10UJ-: W(JUL1)-Bi':iv 
 
 No. This is my Diary, 
 
 Wherein I note my actions of the day. 
 
 122
 
 IHE KOXE 
 
 peri<:grink. 
 
 'Pr;i\' \()u, let's see, Sir. Wliat is here ? Notandiim, 
 
 " A Rat had giiawne my spur-lethers ; notwithstanding, 
 
 I put on \\<t\w^ and did go forth : hut, first, 
 
 I threw three beanes over the threshold. Itoii, 
 
 I went, and bought two tooth-pickes, whereof one 
 
 I burst, ininiediatel)', in a discourse 
 
 With a dutch merchant, 'bout Ragion del stato. 
 
 From him, I went, and payd a moccinigo. 
 
 For peecing my silke stockings ; by the way 
 
 I cheapend sprats : and at S(. Markes, I urin'd." 
 
 'Faith, these are [iolitie|ue notes ! 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir, I do slippe no action of my life, thus, but I quote it. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Beleeve me, it is wise ! 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Nay, Sir, read forth. 
 
 ACT 4. SCENE 2. 
 
 LADY. NANO. WOMEN. POLITIQUE. PEREGRINE. 
 
 Where should this loose Knight be, trow.'' sure h'is hous'd. 
 NANO. 
 
 Why, then, he's fast. 
 
 LA]:)Y POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I, he plaies both, with mee : 
 
 I pray you, stay. This heate will do more harme 
 
 To my complexion, then his heart is worth ; 
 
 (I do not care to hinder, but to take him.) 
 
 How it comes of ! 
 
 123
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 My maister's yonder. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Where ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 With a yong Gentleman. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 That same's the party. 
 
 In mans apparell. 'Pray you, Sir, iog my Knight . 
 
 I will be tender to his reputation, 
 
 However he demerit. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 My lady ! 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Where ? 
 
 POLiriQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 'Tis shee, indeed, Sir ; you shall know her. She is, 
 Were she not mine, a Lady of that mei-ite. 
 For fashion, and behaviour ; and for beauty 
 I durst compare 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 It seemes you are not iealous, 
 That dare commend her. 
 
 i'01.11I()UI<: WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Nay, and for discourse 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Being your wite, shee cannot niisse that. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Matlame, here is a (jcntlcman, 'pra\' ynu, use him, tayrcly ; 
 He seemes a youth, but he is 
 
 LADY POLIIIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 None ? 
 
 124
 
 THE FOXI-: 
 
 POI.rilOLJl-: WOULD-BEK. 
 
 Yes, one has ]uit his face, as sooiie into the world — ^ — 
 
 LADY POLiriOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 You meane, as early ? but to day ? 
 
 POI.ITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Htnv's this ? 
 
 LADY POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Why, in this habit, Sir, you apprehend niee. 
 
 Well, M'- JVoald-bee, this doth not become y"Li ; 
 
 I had thought, the odour. Sir, of your good name, 
 
 Had beene more precious to you ; that you would not 
 
 Have done this dire massacre, on your honour ; 
 
 One of your gravitie, and ranke, besides : 
 
 But, K>i!g//fs, I see, care little for the oath 
 
 They make to Ladies ; chietely, their owne Ladies. 
 
 POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Now, by my spurres (the Symbole of my Knight-hood'). 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 (Lord ! how his brayne is humbled, for an oath) 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I reach you not. 
 
 LADY POLITIOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Right, Sir, your politic 
 
 May beare it through, thus. Sir, a word with you. 
 I would be loth to, contest, publikelv, 
 With any Gentlewoman ; or to seeme 
 Froward, or violent (as the Courtier sayes) 
 It comes too neare rusticity, in a Lady, 
 Which I would shun, by all meanes : and, how-ever 
 I may deserve from M.'' Would-bee, yet 
 T'have one fayre Gentlewoman, thus, be made 
 Ih' unkind instrimient, to wrong anf)ther. 
 And one she knowes not ; I, and to persever, 
 
 I2t
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 In mv poore iudgement, is not warranted 
 From being a sola'cisme in our sexe, 
 If not in manners. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 How is this ! 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Svveete Madame, come nearer to your ayme. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Mary, and will, Sir. 
 
 Since you provoke me, with your impudence. 
 And laughter of your light \znA-Syren, here. 
 Your Sporus, your Hermaphrodite 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 What's here ? 
 
 Poetique fury, and llistorique stormes .'' 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 The Gentleman, beleeve it, is of worth. 
 And of our Nation. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I, your white-Friars nation? 
 
 Come, I blush tor you, M'- Would-bee , I ; 
 
 And am asham'd, you should ha' no more forehead 
 
 Then, thus, to be the Patron, or !^aint George 
 
 To a lewd harlot, a base fricatrice, 
 
 A female devill, in a male out-side. 
 
 politiquf: would-bee. 
 
 Nay, an you be such a one ! I must bid, adieu 
 To your delights. The case appears too liquidc. 
 
 LADY 1'(;LIII()UI': WOULD-Bl'd:. 
 
 I, you may carry't cleare, with your >S'/^//t'-face ; 
 
 But tor your Carnivale (Concupiscence^ 
 
 Who here is fled, for liberty of conscience, 
 
 126
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 l''rciiii turioLis persecution of the Marshall, 
 Her will 1 dise'ple. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 This is fine, I' faith ! 
 
 And do you use this, often ? Is this part 
 
 Of your wits exercise, 'gainst you have occasion ? 
 
 Madam 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Go to, Sir. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Do you heare mee, Lady? 
 
 Why, if your Knight have set you to begge shirts. 
 Or to invite me home, you might have done it 
 A nearer way by farre. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 This cannot worke you, out of my snare. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Why } am I in it, then ? 
 
 Indeede, your husband told mee you were fayre. 
 
 And so you are ; onely, your nose enclines 
 
 (That side, that's next the Sunne), to the Clueetie-apple. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 This cannot be indured by any patience. 
 
 ACT 4. SCENE ^ 
 
 MOSCA. LADY. PEREGRINE. 
 
 What's the matter, Madame .'' 
 
 LADY POLiriQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 If the Senate right not my quest, in this ; I will protest 'hem 
 To all the world, no Aristocrayce 
 
 127
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 What is the iniurie, Ladv ? 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Why, the caller? 
 
 You told mee of, here I have tane disguis'd. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Who? this? What meanes your Ladiship ? The creature 
 I mentioned to you, is apprehended, now, 
 Before the Senate, you shall see her 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Where ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He bring you to her. This young Gentleman, 
 I saw him land, this morning, at the Port. 
 
 LADY POLH lOUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Is't possible ! how has mv iudgemcnt wander'd ? 
 Sir, I must, blushing, say to you, I have err'd : 
 And plead vour pardon. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 What ! more changes, yet ? 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I hope, \'ou ha' not the malice to remember 
 
 A Gentlewomans passion. It you stay, 
 
 In Venice, here, please you to use mee, Sir 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Will you goe. Madam ? 
 
 I.AI)^ POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 'Pray you. Sir, use mee. In talth, 
 
 The more \'ou use mee tlie more I sliall conceive, 
 
 ^ ou have toi-got our quarrell. 
 
 pi:kI',(,uine. 
 
 This is rare I Sir Vo/itif/i<e U'niild-hec t 
 
 ij.S
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 No, Sir Vnlitique Baud, 
 
 To bring me, thus, acquainted with his wife ! 
 Well, wise Sir Pol ; since you have practis'd, thus, 
 Upon my freshman-ship. He trie your salt-head. 
 What proofs it is against a counter-plot. 
 
 ACT 4. SCENE 4. 
 
 VOLTORE. CORBACCiO. CORVINO. MOSCA. 
 
 Well, now you know the carriage of the businesse. 
 
 Your constancy is all, that is requir'd 
 
 Unto the safety of it. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Is the lie 
 
 Safely convai'd amongst us .? is that sure .? 
 
 Knowes every man his burden .? 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Then shrinke not. 
 CORVINO. 
 
 But, knowes the Advocate the truth .? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, Sir, by no meanes. I devis'd a formall tale. 
 
 That salv'd your reputation. But, be valiant. Sir. 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I feare no one, but him ; that, this his pleading 
 
 Should make him stand for a co-heire 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Co-halter, 
 
 129
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Hang him : wee will but use his tongue, his noise, 
 As we do Croakers^ here. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I, what shall he do ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 When we ha' done, you nieane ? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Why, wee'll thinke : 
 
 Sell him for Mummia : hee's halfe dust already. 
 
 Do not you smile, to see this Buffalo, 
 
 How he do's sport it with his head .'' F should, 
 
 It all were well, and past. Sir, onely you 
 
 Are hee, that shall enjoy the crop of all. 
 
 And these not know for whome they toile. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 I, peace. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 But, you shall eate it. Much. Worshipful! Sir, 
 
 Mercury sit upon your thundring tfingue. 
 
 Or the Frenc/i Hercules, and make your language 
 
 y\s con(]uering as his club, to heate along, 
 
 (As with a tempest) flat, our adversaries ; 
 
 But, much more, yours. Sir. 
 
 voi.roRj-:. 
 
 Here they come, ha' done. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I have another witnesse, if you neede. Sir, I can produce, 
 
 \oLr(jRi';. 
 
 Who is it r 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, I have her. 
 
 130
 
 THE FOXR 
 
 ACT 4. SCENE ^ 
 
 AVOCATORE, 4. BONARIO. CELIA. VOLTORE. CORBACCIO. 
 CORVJNO. MOSCA. NOTARIO. COMMANDADORl. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 The like of this the Senate never heard ot. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 'Twil come most strange to them, whe we report it. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 The Gentlewoman has beeiie ever held of un-reproved name. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3 
 
 So has the youth. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 The more unnatiirall part that of his father. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 More, of the husband. 
 
 AVOCATORE i 
 
 I not know to give his act a name, it is so monstrous ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 But the Impostor, he is a thing created 
 T' exceed example ! 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 And all after-times ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 I never heard a true voluptuary 
 Describ'd, hut him. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 Appeare yet those were cited ? 
 
 131
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 NOTARIO. 
 
 All, but the old Magnifico, Volpone. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Why is not hee here ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Please your Father-hoods^ 
 
 Here is his Advocate. Himselte's so weake, 
 
 So feeble 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 What are you ? 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 His Parasite, his Knave, his Pandar — I beseech the Court, 
 He may be forc'd to come, that your grave eies 
 May beare strong witnesse of his strange impostures. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Upon my faith, and credit, with your vertues, 
 Hee is not able to endure the ayre. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Bring him, hovve ever. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 We will see him. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Ketch him. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Your Father-hoodcs fit pleasures be obcy'd, 
 
 But sure, the sight will rather move your pittyes. 
 
 Then indignation ; may it please the Co«r/, 
 
 In the meane time, hee may be heard in me : 
 
 I know this Place most voide of prciudice. 
 
 And therefore crave it, since we have no reason 
 
 To feaix- oui" truth shuuld hurt oiu" cause.
 
 THE FOXK 
 
 AVOCATORK 3. 
 Spcakc, free. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Then know, most honor'd Fathers, I must now 
 
 Discover, to your strangely 'abused eares, 
 
 The most prodigious, and most frontlesse piece 
 
 Ot soHd impudence, and trechery. 
 
 That ever vicious Nature yet brought forth 
 
 To shame the State of Venice. This lewd woman, 
 
 (That wants no artificiall lookes, or teares, 
 
 To help the visor, she has now put on) 
 
 Hath long beene knowne a close adultresse, 
 
 To that lascivious youth there, not suspected, 
 
 I say, but knowne ; and taken, in the act. 
 
 With him ; and by this man, the easie husband, 
 
 Pardon'd ; whose timelesse bounty makes him, now. 
 
 Stand here, the most unhappy, innocent person, 
 
 That ever mans owne vertue made accus'd. 
 
 For these, not knowing how to owe a gift 
 
 Of that deare grace, but with their shame ; being plac'd 
 
 So' above all powers of their gratitude. 
 
 Began to hate the benefit ; and, in place 
 
 Of thankes, devise t' extirpe the memory 
 
 Of such an act : wherein, I pray your Father-hoods, 
 
 To observe the malice, yea, the rage of creatures 
 
 Discover'd in their evils ; and what heart 
 
 Such take, even, from their crimes. But that, anone. 
 
 Will more appeare. This Gentleman, the father, 
 
 Hearing of this foule fact, with many others, 
 
 That dayly strooke at his too-tender eares. 
 
 And, griev'd in nothing more, then that he could not 
 
 Preserve himself a parent (his sonnes ills 
 
 Growing to that strange floud) at last decreed 
 
 To dis-inherit him. 
 
 133
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 These be strange turnes ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 The young mans fame was ever faire, and honest. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 So much more full of danger is his vice, 
 
 That can beguile so, under shade of vertue. 
 
 But, as I said (my honour'd Sires) his father 
 
 Having this setled purpose, (by what meanes 
 
 To him betray'd, we know not) and this day 
 
 Appointed for the deed, that Parricide, 
 
 (I cannot style him better) by confederacy 
 
 Preparing this his Paramour to be there. 
 
 Entered Volpone's house (who was the man. 
 
 Your Father-hoods must understand, design'd 
 
 For the inheritance), there, sought his father ; 
 
 But with what purpose sought he him, my Sires ? 
 
 (I tremble to pronounce it, that a sonne 
 
 Unto a father, and to such a father 
 
 Should have so foule, felonious intent) 
 
 It was, to murder him. When, being prevented 
 
 By his more happy absence, what then did hce .' 
 
 Not check his wicked thoughts ; no, now new deedes 
 
 (Mischief doth ever ende where it begins) 
 
 An act of horror. Fathers ! he drag'd forth 
 
 The aged Gentleman, that had there lien, bed-rid, 
 
 Three yeares, and more, out of his innocent couch, 
 
 Naked ujion the floore, there left him ; wounded 
 
 His servant in the face ; and with this strumpet, 
 
 The stale to his forg'd practise, who was glad 
 
 To be so active, (I shall here desire 
 
 Your Father-hoods to note but my collections. 
 
 As most remarkable) thought, at once, to stop 
 
 His fathers ends ; discredit his tree choise 
 
 134
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 III the old Gentleman ; rciieenic themselves, 
 
 By laying infamy, upon this man. 
 
 To whome, with blushing, they should owe their lives. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 What proofes have you of this ? 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Most honour'd Fathers, 
 
 I humbly crave, there be no credite given 
 
 To this man's mercenary tongue. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 Forbeare. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 His soule moves in his fee. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 O, Sir. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 This fellow, 
 
 For six sols more, would pleade against his Maker. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 You do forget your selfe. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Nay, nay, grave Fathers, 
 Let him have scope ; can any man imagine 
 That hee will spare his accuser, that would not 
 Have spar'd his parent ^. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Well, produce your proofes. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 I would, I could forget, I were a creature. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Signior Corhaccio. 
 
 135
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 What is hee r 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 The father. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Has he had an oath ? 
 
 NOTARIO. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What must I doe now .'' 
 
 NOTARIO. 
 
 Your testimony's crav'd. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Speak to the knave .'' 
 
 He ha' my mouth, first, stopt with earth ; my heart 
 
 Abhors his knowledge : I disclaime in him. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 But for what cause .'' 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 The mere portent of nature. 
 
 Hee is an utter stranger to my loynes. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Have they made you to this ? 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I will not heare thee, 
 
 Monster of men, swine, goate, wolte. Parricide, 
 
 Speake not, thou viper. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Sir, I will sit downe. 
 
 And rather wish my umocence should suffer. 
 Than I resist the authnrity nt a father. 
 
 136
 
 Till-: KOXF, 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Signior Corvino. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 This is strange ! 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Who's this ? 
 
 NOTARIO. 
 
 The husband. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Is he sworne ? 
 
 NOTARIO. 
 
 Hee is. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 Spealce then. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 This woman (please your Father-hoods), is a whore, 
 Of most hot exercise, more than a partrich. 
 Upon record 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 No more. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Neighes, like a gennet. 
 
 NOTARIO. 
 
 Preserve the honour of the Courl. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I shall, and modesty of your most reverend eares. 
 And, yet, I hope that I may say, these eyes 
 Have seene her glew'd unto that peece of Cedar ; 
 That fine well-timber'd gallant : and that, here, 
 The letters may be read, thorough the home, 
 That make the story perfect. 
 
 137
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Excellent, Sir. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 There is no harme in this, now, is there ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 None. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Or if I said, I hop'd, that she were onward 
 
 To her damnation, if there be a hell 
 
 Greater than whore, and woman ; a good Christian 
 
 May make the doubt. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 His griefe hath made him frantiquc, 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Remove him, hence. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Looke to the woman. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 Rare! 
 
 Prettily fain'd againe ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Stand from about her. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Give her the ayre. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 What can you say ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 My wound, 
 
 (May't please your wisdomes) speakes tor mee, receiv'd 
 
 In ayde of my gooil Patron, when he mist 
 
 His sought-for father, when that well-taught dame 
 
 I lad her (in: given her, to ci'ie out a rape. 
 
 138
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 O, most l;i)''d inipu(,icnce ! Fathers. 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 Sir, be silent, 
 
 You had your hcariiiy; free, so must they theirs. 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 I do begin to doubt th' imposture here. 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 This woman has too many moodes. 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Grave Fathers., she is a creature, of a most profest. 
 
 And prostituted lewdnesse. 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Most impetuous, unsatisfied, grave Fathers, 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 May her taynings 
 
 Not take your wisdomes : but, this day, she bayted 
 
 A stranger, a grave Knight, with her loose eyes. 
 
 And more lascivious kisses. This man saw 'hem 
 
 Together, on the water, in a Gondola. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Here is the Lady herselfe, that saw 'hem too, 
 
 "Without ; who, then, had in the open streetes 
 
 Pursew'd them, but for saving her Knights honour. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Produce that Lady. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Let her come. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 These things. 
 
 They strike, with wonder ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 I am turn'd a stone ! 
 
 139
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 ACT 4. SCENE 6. 
 
 MOSCA. LADY. AVOCATORI. &c. 
 
 Be resolute, Madam. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I, this same is shee, 
 
 Out, thou Camelion harlot ; now, thine eyes 
 Vie tears with the Ilya-na : darst thou looke 
 Upon my wronged face .'' I crie your pardons. 
 I feare, I have (forgettingly) transgrest 
 Against the dignity of the Court 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 No, Madame. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 And beene exorbitant 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 You have not, Lady. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 These proofes are strong. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 Surely, I had no purpose. 
 To scandalize your Honors, or my sexes. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 We doe beleeve it. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Surely, you may beleeve it. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Madame, wee doe. 
 
 140
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Iiideede, you may ; my breeding 
 Is not so course 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Wee know it. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 To ofFend with pertinacy 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 Lady. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Such a presence ; 
 No, surely. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Wee well thinke it. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 You may thinke it. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Let her o'recome. What witnesses have you, 
 To make good your report ? 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Our consciences : 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 And heaven, that never fayles the innocent. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 These are no testimonies. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Not, in your Courts, 
 
 Where multitude, and clamour, overcomes. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Nay, then you do waxe insolent. 
 
 141
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Here, hear, 
 
 The testimony comes, that will convince. 
 
 And put to utter dumbnesse, their bold tongues. 
 
 See here, grave Fathers, here's the Ravisher, 
 
 The Rider on mens wives, the great Impostor, 
 
 The grand Voluptuary : Do you not thinke, 
 
 These limbes should affect Venery ? or these eyes 
 
 Covet a concubine ? 'Pray you, marke these hands, 
 
 Are they not fit to stroke a Ladies brests ? 
 
 Perhaps, he doth dissemble. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 So he do's. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Would you ha' him tortur'd .'' 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 I would have him prov'd. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Best trie him, then, with goades, or burning Irons ; 
 
 Put him to the strappado ; I have heard. 
 
 The Rack hath cured the goute ; faith, give it him. 
 
 And helpe him of a malady, bee courteous : 
 
 I'll undertake, before these honor'd Fathers, 
 
 He shall have, yet, as many left diseases, 
 
 As she has knowne adulterers, or thou strumpets. 
 
 O, my most equall Hearers, if these deedes, 
 
 Acts of this bold, and most exorbitant straine. 
 
 May passe with suffrance ; what one Cittizen, 
 
 But owes the forfeit of his life, yea, fame. 
 
 To him that dares traduce him ? Which of you 
 
 i\re safe, my honord Fathers '^ I would aske, 
 
 (With leave of your grave Father-hoods^ if their plot 
 
 Have any face, or colour like to truth? 
 
 142
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Or if, unto the dullest nostrill, here. 
 
 It smell not ranke, and most abhorred slaunder ? 
 
 I crave your care of this good Gentleman, 
 
 Whose life is much indanger'd, by their fable ; 
 
 And, as for them, I will conclude with this, 
 
 That vicious persons, when they are hot, and flesh'd 
 
 In impious acts, their constancy abounds : 
 
 Damn'd deedes are done with greatest confidence. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Take 'hem to custody, and sever them. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 'Tis pitty, two such prodigies should live. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Let the old Gentleman be return'd with care ; 
 I'am sory our credulity wrong'd him. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 These are two creatures ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 I have an earthquake in me ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Their shame (even in their cradles) fled their faces. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 You' have done a worthy service to the S/a/e, Sir, 
 In their discovery. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 You shall heare, ere night. 
 
 What punishment the Court decrees upon 'hem. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Wee thaiike your Father-hoods. How like you it } 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Rare. 
 
 rid ha' your tongue. Sir, tipt with gold, for this ; 
 
 143
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 rid ha' you be the heyre to the whole Citty ; 
 The earth I'ld have want men, ere you want living 
 They are bound t' erect your Statue, In St. Markes. 
 Signior Corvino, I would have you goe, 
 And shew your selfe, that you have conquer'd. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 It was much better, that you should professe. 
 Your selfe a cuckold, thus ; then that the other 
 Should have beene prov'd. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Nay, I consider' d that ; 
 Now it is her fault : 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Then, it had beene yours. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 True, I do doubt this Advocate, still. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 r faith, 
 
 You need not, I dare ease you of that care. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I trust thee, Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 As your, owne soule. Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Mosca. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Now for yciw businesse, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 How.'' Ha' you busincs ? 
 
 144
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, yours, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 O, none else ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 None else, not I. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Be careful], then. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Rest you, with both your eies, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Dispatch it. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Instantly. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 And looke, that all, 
 
 What-ever, bee put in, iewells, plate, moneyes, 
 
 House-holdstuffe, bedding, curtines. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Curtine-rings, Sir. 
 
 Onely, the Advocates fee must be deducted. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 He pay him, now : you'll be too prodigall. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, I must tender it. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Two Cecchines is well .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 No, sixe. Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 'Tis too much. 
 
 M5
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He talk'd a great while, 
 Yoii must consider that, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Well, there's three 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He give it him. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Doe so, and there's for thee. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Bountiful! bones ! What horride strange offence 
 Did he commit 'gainst nature, in his youth, 
 Worthy this age ? You see, Sir, how I worlce 
 Unto your ends ; take you no notice. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 No, He leave you. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 All, is yours, the Devill, and all, 
 
 Good Advocate. — Madame, I'le bring you home. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 No, He go see ycnu" Patron. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I'hat you shall not : 
 
 He tell you, why. My purpose is, to urge 
 
 My Patron tfi reforme his Will ; and, for 
 
 The zealc yfHi have shcw'ii to tlay, whereas before 
 
 You were but third, or fourth, you shall be now 
 
 Put in the first ; whicli woulii appeare as beg'd, 
 
 H you be present. Iherefore 
 
 LADY I'f)l.l I lOUl', WOULD-BEE. 
 
 You shall sway mee. 
 
 146
 
 ACT ;. SCENE i 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 OLPONE. 
 
 Well, I ;im here ; 
 
 and all this brunt 
 
 is past : 
 I nere was in dislike 
 
 with my disguise. 
 Till this fled 
 
 moment ; here, 
 
 'twas good, in 
 
 private, 
 But, in your publike, 
 
 Cave, whir St I 
 
 breath. 
 'Kore God, my left 
 
 legge 'gan to have 
 
 the crampe, 
 And I apprended, 
 
 straight, some 
 
 power had strooke 
 
 mee 
 With a dead Valsey : 
 
 Well, I must be 
 
 merry. 
 
 And shake it ofF. A many ot these feares 
 
 Would put mee into some villanous disease. 
 
 Should they come thick upon nice : He prevent 'hem. 
 
 Give mee a boule ot lusty wine, to fright 
 
 147
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 This humor from my heart ; (Hum, hum, hum) 
 
 'Tis almost gone, already : I shall conquer. 
 
 Any devise, now, of rare, ingenious knavery. 
 
 That would possesse mee with a violent laughter, 
 
 Would make mee up, againe : So, so, so, so. 
 
 This heate is life ; 'tis blood, by this time : Mosca ! 
 
 ACT ^. SCENE 2. 
 
 MOSCA. VOLPONE. NANO. CASTRONE. 
 
 How now. Sir ^ do's the day looke cleare againe .'' 
 Are we recoverd ^ and wrought out of error. 
 Into our way } to see our path, before us .'' 
 Is our trade free, once more .'' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Exquisite Mosca ! 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Was it not carry'd learnedly .'' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 And stoutly. 
 
 Good wits are greatest in extremities. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 It were folly, beyond thought, to trust 
 Any grand act unto a cowardly spirit : 
 You are not taken with it, enough, mee tliinks. 
 
 \(jLPONE. 
 
 O, more, then if I had enjoy'tl the wench : 
 The pleasure of all woman-kiiurs not like it. 
 
 148
 
 THK FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Why, now you speake, Sir. We must, here be fixt ; 
 Here, we must rest ; this is our maister-peice ; 
 We cannot thinke, to goe beyond this. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 True. Thou "hast phiyd thy prise, my precious Alosca. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Nay Sir, to gull the Court 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 And, quite divert the torrent, 
 Upon the innocent. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, and to make 
 
 So rare a Musi que, out of Discordes 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Right. 
 
 That, yet, to mee's the strangest ! how th' hast borne it ' 
 
 That these (being so divided 'mongst themselves) 
 
 Should not sent some-what, or in mee, or thee. 
 
 Or doubt their owne side. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 True. They will not see't, 
 
 Too much light blinds 'hem, I thinke : each of 'hem 
 
 Is so possest, and stuft with his owne hopes, 
 
 That any thing, unto the contrary, 
 
 Never so true, or never so apparent, 
 
 Never so palpable, they will resist it 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Like a temptation of the Devill. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Right, Sir. 
 
 Merchants may talke of trade, anti your great Signiors 
 
 149
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Of land, that yeelds well ; but if Italy 
 
 Have any glebe, more fruictfull, then these fellowes, 
 
 I am deceiv'd. Did not your Advocate rare ? 
 
 ^'OLPONE. 
 
 O, my most honor d Fathers, my grave Fathers, 
 
 Under correction of your Father-hoods, 
 
 What face of truth is, here ? If these strange deedes 
 
 May passe, most honor d Fathers 1 had much a doe 
 
 To forbeare laughing. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 'T seem'd to mee, vou sweate, Sir. 
 
 \^OLPONE. 
 
 In troth, I did a little. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 But confesse. Sir, were you not daunted .'' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 In good hiith, I was 
 
 A little in a mist ; but not delected ; 
 
 Never, but still my selte. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I thinke it, Sir. 
 
 Now (so truth helpe mee), 1 must needes say this. Sir, 
 
 And, out of conscience ; for your Advocate : 
 
 He' has taken paynes, in faith, Sir, and deserv'd. 
 
 In my poore iudgement, I speake it, under favour. 
 
 Not to contrary vou, Sir, very richly — 
 
 Well — to be cosen'd. 
 
 \'()\.VO^V.. 
 
 Troth, and I thinke so too, 
 
 By that I heard him, in the latter ende. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, but before, Sii- ; had you heai'd him, iirst, 
 Draw it to certaine heads, then aggravate, 
 
 150
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Then use his vehement figures — I look'd stil 
 
 When he would shift a shirt ; and, doing this 
 
 Out of pure love, no hope of gaine 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 'Tis right. 
 
 I cannot answer him, Mosca, as I would. 
 
 Not yet ; but, for thy sake, at thy intreaty, 
 
 I will beginne, even now, to vexe 'hem all : 
 
 This very instant. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Good, Sir. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Call the Dwarfe 
 
 And Eunuch, forth. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Castrone, Nano. 
 NANO. 
 
 Here. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Shall we have a lig, now : 
 MOSCA. 
 
 What you please. Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Goe, 
 
 Streight, give out, about the streetes, you two, 
 
 That I am dead ; doe it, with constancy. 
 
 Sadly, do you heare } impute it to the griefe 
 
 Of this late slander. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 What doe you meane Sir .'' 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O, 
 
 I shall have, instantly, my Vulture, Crow, 
 
 151
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Raven, come flying hither (on the newes) 
 To peck for carrion, my shee-lFo/fe, and all, 
 Greedy, and full of expectation 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And then, to have it ravish'd from their mouths ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 'Tis true, I will ha' thee put on a gowne. 
 And take upon thee, as thou wert mine heire ; 
 Show 'hem a Will ; Open that chest, and reach 
 Forth one of those, that has the Blankes. He straight 
 Put in thy name. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 It will be rare. Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I, 
 
 When they e'ene gape, and finde themselves deluded — 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 \'OLPONE. 
 
 And, thou use them skirvily. 
 Dispatch, get on thy gowne. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 But what. Sir, if they aske after the body ^ 
 
 \OLPONE. 
 
 Say, it was corrupted. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 He say it stunke. Sir ; and was taine t'have it 
 Coffin'd ujt instantly, and sent away. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Any thing, what thmi uilt. I lold, hcres ni\' Will. 
 Get thee a cap, a count-booke, pen and nike, 
 
 152
 
 THE KOXE 
 
 Papers afore thee ; sit, ;is thou wert taking 
 
 An inventory of parcells : lie get up, 
 
 Behind the curtine, on a stoole, and hearken ; 
 
 Sometime, peepe over ; see, how they do looke. 
 
 With what degrees, their bloud doth leave their faces, 
 
 O, 'twill afford me a rare meale of laughter. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Your Advocate will turne starkc dull, upon it. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 It will take of his Oratories edge. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 But your Clarissimo, old round-backe, hee 
 
 Will crumpe you, like a hog-louse, with the touch. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 And what Co7'vino ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, Sir, looke for him. 
 
 To morrow morning, with a rope and a dagger, 
 
 To visite all the streetes ; he must runne madd, 
 
 My Lady too, that came into the Court, 
 
 To beare false witnesse, for your Worship. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 And kist mee 'fore the Fathers ,• when mv face 
 
 Flow'd all with oyles 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 And sweate, Sir. Why, your gold 
 
 Is such another med'cine, it dries up 
 
 All those offensive savors ! It transformes 
 
 The most deformed, and restores 'hem lovely, 
 
 As't were the strange poetic all Girdle. lOVE 
 
 Could not invent, t' himselfe, a shroud more subtle, 
 
 153
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 To passe Acrisius guardes. It is the thing 
 
 Makes all the world her grace, her youth, her beauty. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I thiiike, she loves me. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Who.? the Lady, Sir.? 
 Shee's iealous of you. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Do'st thou say so .? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Hearke, 
 
 There's some, already. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 Looke. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 It is the Vulture : 
 
 Hee has the quickest sent. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 He to my place, 
 Thou, to thy posture. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I am set. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 But, Mosca, 
 
 Piav the Artificer now, toi-turc 'hem, i-arelv. 
 
 154
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 ACT ;. SCENE 3 
 
 VOLTORE. MOSCA. CORBACCIO. CORVINO. LADY. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 How now, my Mosca ? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Turkie Carpets, nine 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Taking an inventory ? that is well. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 T-ivo sutes of bedding, T is sew ■ 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Where's the Will? 
 Let me read that, the while. 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 So, set me downe : 
 And get you home. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Is he come, now, to trouble us .'' 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Of Cloth of gold, two more 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Is it done, Mosca ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Of se'verall vellets, eight 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 I like his care. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Dost thou not heare .'' 
 
 155
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Ha ? is th' hour come, Mosca ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I, now, they muster. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 What do's the Advocate, here ? 
 Or this Corbaccio ? 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What doe these, here ? 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Mosca ? 
 
 Is his thred spunne ? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Eig/ii Chests of Ltnnen 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O, my fine Dame IVould-bee, too ! 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Mosca, the Will, 
 
 That I may shew it these, and rid 'hem hence. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Six Chests of Diaper, foure of Damaske. — There. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Is that the Will } 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Downe-Beds, and Boidsters 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 Rare ! 
 
 Bee busy still. Now, thev begin to flutter : 
 They never thinke of inc. l.()(ke, see, see, see! 
 How their swift eies runne over the long deed^ 
 Ifnto the Name, and to the legacies. 
 What is hcc]uc:itli'd thciii, tlicre 
 
 IS6
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Ten Sutes of Hangings 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I, r their garters, Mosca. Now, their hopes 
 Are at the gaspe. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Mosca the heire ? 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What's that ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 My Advocate is dumbe ; Looke to my Merchant, 
 He has heard of some strange storme, a ship is lost : 
 He faintes ; My Lady will swoune. Old Glazen-eies, 
 He hath not reach'd his dispaire, yet. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 All these 
 
 Are out of hope ; V am sure the man. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 But, Mosca 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 T-zvo Cabinets 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Is this in earnest.'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 One 
 
 Of Ebony 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Or, do you but delude mee ^ 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 The other. Mother of Pearle — 
 I am very busie. 
 
 157
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Good faith, It is a fortune throwne upon me — 
 Item, one Salt of Agat — not my seeking. 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Do vou heare, Sir ? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 yl perfuni d Boxe — 'pray you forbear, 
 
 You see I am troubled — made of an Onyx — ■ — 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 How ! 
 MOSCA. 
 
 To morrow, or next day, I shall be at leasure, 
 To talke with you all. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Is this my large hopes issue .'' 
 
 LADY POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir, I must have a fayrer answere. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Madame } 
 
 Mary, and shall : 'pray you, fairclv quit my house. 
 
 Nav, raise no tempest with your lookes ; but, hearke you 
 
 Remember, what your Ladyship offered mee, 
 
 To put you in, an heire ; go to, think on't. 
 
 And what you said, eene your best Madames did 
 
 For maintaynance, and why not you .'' Inough. 
 
 Go home, and use the poore Sir Poll, your Knight, well ; 
 
 For feare I tell some riddles ; Go, be mclancholique. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O, ni\' fine Devill ! 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Mosca, 'pray you a word. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 L'lrd ! will not you take your dispatch hence, yet? 
 Me thinkes (of all) you should have beene tli' example. 
 
 158
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Why should you stay, hero? with what thought? what promise? 
 Heare you; do not you know, I know you an assc ? 
 And, that you would ; most taine have been a wittoll, 
 If fortune would have let you ? that you are 
 A declar'd cuckold, on good termes ? This Pearle, 
 You'll say, was yours ? right. This Diamaiit ? 
 He not deny't, but thanke you. Much here, else? 
 It may be so. Why, thinke that these good workes 
 May helpe to hide your bad : He not betray you. 
 Although you be but extraordinary, 
 And have it only in title, it sufficeth. 
 Go home ; be melancholiquc, too : or madd. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Rare Mosca ! how his vallany becomes him! 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Certaine, he doth delude all these, for mee. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Mosca the heire ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O, his fowre eies have found it. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 r am cosen'd, cheated, by a P^rrtJ/Vt'-slave ; 
 Harlot, t'hast gul'd mee. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 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 legges, that, here, in hope of prey. 
 
 Have, any time this three yeare, snuft about. 
 
 With your most grov'Iin.g nose, and would have hir'd 
 
 Mee, to the pois'ning of my Patron ? Sir ? 
 
 Are not you he, that have, to day, in Court 
 
 Profess'd the dis-inheriting of your sonne ? 
 
 i5'J
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Periur'd yourselfe ? Goe home, and die, and stinke ; 
 It you but croake a sillable, all comes out : 
 Away, atid call your porters, go, go, stinke. 
 
 \'OLPONE. 
 
 Excellent varlet ! 
 
 X'OLTORE. 
 
 Now, mv faithfull Mosca, 
 I finde thy constancie. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir ? 
 
 \'OLTORE. 
 
 Sincere. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 A Table 
 
 Of Porphiry — I ma'rle you'll be thus troublesome. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Nay, leave off now, they are gone. 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Why ^ who are you } 
 
 What : who did send for you ^ O' crie you mercy. 
 
 Reverend Sir : good faith, I am gricv'd for you. 
 
 That any chance of mine should thus defeate 
 
 YoLM- (I must needs say) most deserving travailes : 
 
 But, I jirotest. Sir, it was cast upon me. 
 
 And I could, almost, wish to be without it, 
 
 But tliat the will o' th' dead must be obser\''d. 
 
 Mary, my ioy is, that you need it not, 
 
 ^ ou have a gift. Sir (thanke youi" ciiucation). 
 
 Will ne\-er let vou want, while there are men. 
 
 And malice to breed causes. Would 1 had 
 
 But halte the like, for all my fortune. Sir. 
 
 It 1 lia\-e any sutes (as I do hope, 
 
 Things being so easie, and liirect, I shall not) 
 
 iGo
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 I will make bold with your obstreperous aide, 
 
 (Conceive me) for your fee, Sir. In meane time, 
 
 You that have so much law, I know ha' the conscience, 
 
 Not to be covetous of what is mine. 
 
 Good Sir, I thanke you, for my plate ; 'twill helpe 
 
 To set up a young man. Good faith, you looke 
 
 As you were costive ; best goe home, and purge. Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Bid him, eate lettice well : my witty mischiefe. 
 
 Let me embrace thee. O, that I could now 
 
 Transforme thee to a Venus — Mosca, goe, 
 
 Streight, take my habit of Clarissimo, 
 
 And walke the streets ; bee scene, torment 'hem more : 
 
 Wee must pursew, as well as plot. Who would 
 
 Have lost this feast .'' 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I doubt, it will loose them. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O, my recovery shall recover all. 
 That I could now but thinke on some disguise. 
 To meete 'hem in, and aske 'hem questions. 
 How I would vexe, 'hem still, at every turne ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, I can fit you. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Canst thou ? 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Yes, I knowe one o' the Commandadori, Sir, so like you, 
 Him will I streight make drunke, and bring you his habite. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 A rare disguise, and answering thy braine ! 
 O, I will be a sharp disease unto 'hem. 
 
 i6i
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Sir, you must looke for curses 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Till they burst ; 
 
 The FoxE fares ever best, when he is curst. 
 
 ACT :;. SCENE 4. 
 
 PEREGRINE. MERCATORI 3. WOMAN. POLITIQUE. 
 
 Am I inough disguis'd .' 
 
 MERCATORE i. 
 
 I warrant you. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 All my ambition is to fright him, onely. 
 
 MERCATORE 2. 
 
 If you could ship him away, twere excellent. 
 
 MERCATORE 3. 
 
 To Zai!/, or to y^Iepo .? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Yes, and have's 
 
 Adventures put i' th' Booke of voyages, 
 
 And his guld story registrcd, for truth .'' 
 
 Well, Gentlemen, when I am in, a while ; 
 
 And that you thinke us warme, in t)ur discoin^se. 
 
 Know your a|iproaches. 
 
 MERCATORI. i. 
 
 Trust it, to oiu" care. 
 
 PliREGRINE. 
 
 'Save you, faire Lady. Is Sir Po//. within ? 
 
 162
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 I do not know, Sir. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 'Pray you, say unto him. 
 
 Here is a merchant, upon earnest businesse, 
 
 Desires to speake with him. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 I will see, Sir. 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 'Pray you. 
 
 I see, the Family is all female here. 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Hee sai's, Sir, hee has waighty affaires of State, 
 That now require him whole ; some other time, 
 You may possesse him. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 'Pray you say againe. 
 
 If those require him whole ; these will exact him. 
 Whereof I bring him tidings. What might bee 
 His grave affair of State, now 1 how, to make 
 Bolognian sauseges, here, in Venice, sparing 
 One o' th' Ingredients. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Sir, he sai's, he knowes 
 
 By your word tidings, that you are no States-man, 
 
 And therefore, wills you stay. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Sweet, 'pray you returne him, 
 
 I have not read so many Proclamations, 
 
 And studied them, for words, as hee has done 
 
 But, here he deignes to come. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir ! I must crave 
 
 163
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Your courteous pardon ; there hath chanc'd (to-day) 
 
 Unkinde disaster 'twixt my Lady and mee ; 
 
 And I was penning my Apologie 
 
 To give her satisfaction, as you came, now. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Sir, I am greiv'd, I bring you worse disaster ; 
 The Gentleman, you met at th' Port to-day, 
 That told you, he was newly arriv'd 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I, was a fugitive Punke ? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 No, Sir, a Spie, set on you. 
 And hee has made relation to the Senate, 
 That you profest to him to have a plot 
 To sell the State of Venice to the Tnrke. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 O mee. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 For which, warrants are sign'd by this time. 
 To apprehend you, and to search your study. 
 For papers 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Alasse, Sir. I have none, but notes 
 Drawne out of Play-bookes 
 
 PI\RIXiRINE. 
 
 All the better, Sir. 
 
 l'(Jl,riIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 And some Essayes. What shall I doe .'' 
 
 PERF.GRINE. 
 Sir, Best 
 Convay your selfe into a Sugar-Cliest : 
 
 1 04
 
 THE l-'OXE 
 
 Or, if you could lie round, a l<'rayle were rare : 
 And I could send you, aboard. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir, I but tallc'd so, 
 For discourse sake, merely. 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Hearke, they are there. 
 
 POLrnyuE would-bee. 
 
 I am a wretch, a wretch. 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 What will you do. Sir.? 
 
 Ha' you nere a Curren-Butt to leape into ? 
 
 They'll put you to the Rack, you must be sodaine. 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Sir, I have an ingine • 
 
 MERCATORE 3. 
 
 Sir Politique Would-bee ? 
 
 MERCATORE 2. 
 
 Where is hee } 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 That I have thought upon, before time. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 What is it } 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 I shall nere indure the torture. 
 
 Mary, it is, Sir, of a Tor/oy.f^-shell, 
 
 Apted, for these extremities : 'Pray you. Sir, helpe mee. 
 
 Here Y have a place. Sir, to put back my leggs. 
 
 Please you to lay it on. Sir, with this cap. 
 
 And my black gloves. He lie, Sir, like a Tortoyse, 
 
 Till they are gone. 
 
 165
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 And, call vou this an ingine ? 
 
 POLITIQUE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Mine o\^'n devise — Good Sir, bid my wives women 
 To burne my papers. 
 
 MERCATORE i. 
 
 Where's hee hid .'' 
 
 MERCATORE 3. 
 
 We must. 
 
 And will, sure, finde him. 
 
 MERCATORE 2. 
 
 Which is his study .'' 
 
 MERCATORE i. 
 
 What are you, Sir ? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 r am a merchant, that came here 
 To looke upon this 'Tortoyse. 
 
 MERCATORE 3. 
 Howe .'' 
 
 MERCATORE i. 
 
 .SV. Mnrke ! 
 
 What Beast is this .? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 It is a I'ish. 
 
 MERCATORE 2. 
 
 Come out, here. 
 
 PERECxRINI^. 
 
 Nay, vou may strike him. Sir, and tread upon him : 
 Hee'll bearc a cart.
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MERCATORE i. 
 
 What, to runnc over him ? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 Yes. 
 
 MERCATORE 3. 
 
 Letts iumpe, upon him 
 
 MERCATORE 2. 
 
 Can hee not goe ? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 He creepes Sir. 
 
 MERCATORE 1. 
 
 Letts see him creepe. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 No, good Sir, you will hurt him. 
 
 MERCATORE 2. 
 
 (Heart) He see him creepe ; or prick his gutts. 
 
 MERCATORE 3. 
 
 Come out, here. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 'Pray you, Sir, (creepe a little) 
 
 MERCATORE i. 
 
 Forth. 
 
 MERCATORE 2. 
 
 Yet furder. 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Good Sir, (creepe) 
 
 MERCATORE. 2. 
 
 Wee'll see his leggs. 
 
 MERCATORE 3. 
 
 Gods' so hee has garters ! 
 
 167
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MERCATORE i. 
 
 I, and gloves ! 
 
 MERCATORE 2. 
 
 Is this 
 
 Your fearefuU Tortoyse ? 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Now, Sir Poll. Wee are even ; 
 
 For vour next proiect, I shall be prepar'd : 
 
 I am sory, for the funerall of your notes, Sir. 
 
 MERCATORE i. 
 
 'Twere a rare motion, to be seene in Fleete-Streete ! 
 
 MERCATORE 2. 
 
 I, i' the Terme. 
 
 MERCATORE 1. 
 
 Or Sviithfield, in the Vaire. 
 
 MERCATORE 3. 
 
 Me thinkes, tis but a melancholique sight ! 
 
 PEREGRINE. 
 
 Farewell, most politique Tortoyse. 
 
 POLITK^UE WOULD-BEE. 
 
 Where's my Lady .'' 
 Knowes she of this ? 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 I know not. Sir. 
 
 I'Di .itk^uf: WOLJLD-BEE. 
 
 Enquire. O, I shall bee the fable of all feasts. 
 The freight of the Gazelti ; ship-boics tale ; 
 And, which is worst, even talke for Ordinaries. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 My Lady's come most melanch()lit|ue, home. 
 
 And say's. Sir, slic will straight to sea, for Pliysick. 
 
 168
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 POLITIQUE would-bj:i-;. 
 
 And I, to shuiine, this place, and clime for ever ; 
 Creeping, with house, on back : ami thinke it well, 
 To shrinke my poore head, in my politique shell. 
 
 ACT 5. SCENE ^. 
 
 VOLPONE. MOSCA. 
 
 Am I then like him ? 
 MOSCA. 
 
 O, Sir, you are hee : 
 No man can sever you. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Good. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 But, what am I ^ 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 'Fore heav'n, a brave Clarissimo, thou becom'st it ! 
 Pitty thou wert not borne one. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 If I hold 
 
 My made one, 'twill be well. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 He goe and see 
 
 What newes, first, at the Court. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Do so. My FoxE 
 
 Is out on his hole, and, ere he shall re-enter. 
 
 He make him languish, in his borrow'd case, 
 
 i6g
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Except he come to composition, with mee : 
 Androgyno, Castrone, Nano. 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Here. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Go, recreate your selves, abroad ; go, sport : 
 
 So, now I have the keies, and am possest. 
 
 Since hee will, needes, be dead, afore his time. 
 
 He burie him, or gaine by him ; I 'am his heyre : 
 
 And so will keepe me, till he share at least. 
 
 To cosen him of all, were but a cheat 
 
 Well plac'd ; no man would construe it a sinne: 
 
 Let his sport pay for't, this is call'd the FOXE-trap ! 
 
 ACT ^. SCENE 6. 
 
 CORBACCIO. CORVINO. VOLPONE. 
 
 They say, the Court is set. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 We must niaintemc 
 
 Our first tale good, for both our reputations. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Why ^ mine's no talc : my sonne would, there, ha\'e kild me. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 That's true. I hmi forgot ; mine is, 1 am sure. 
 Hut, tor \'()ur Will, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 I, Ik- come upon him, 
 
 I'or that, hercattcr ; now his I'atron's ilead. 
 
 170
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Signior Corvino ! and Corbaccio I Sir, 
 Much ioy unto ycu. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Of what ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 The sodaine good, 
 
 Dropt downe upon you 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Where ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 (And, none knovves how) 
 From old Volpone, Sir. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Out, errant Knave. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Let not your too much wealth, Sir, make you furious. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Away, thou varlet. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Why, Sir ? 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Do'st thou mock me .'' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 You mock the world. Sir; did you not change Wills? 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Out, harlot ! 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O ! belike you are the man, 
 
 Signior Corvino ? 'faith, you carry it well ; 
 
 You grow not mad withal! ; I love your spirit. 
 
 171
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 You are not over-leaven'd, with your fortune. 
 
 You should ha' some would swell, now, like a wine-fat, 
 
 With such an Autumns — Did he gi' you all, Sir? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Avoid, you Rascal. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 'Troth, your wife has shewne 
 Her selfe a very woman ; but, you are well. 
 You need not care, you have a good estate, 
 To beare it out. Sir : better, by this chance. 
 Except Corbaccio have a share .'' 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Hence varlet. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 You will not be a'knowne, Sir ; why, 'tis wise, 
 rhus doe all Gam'sters, at all games, dissemble ; 
 No man will seeme to winne : here, comes my J'ulture, 
 Heaving his beake up i' the ayre, and snuffing. 
 
 ACT ^. SCENE 7. 
 
 VOLTORE. VOLPONE. 
 
 Out-stript thus, by a Parasite;' a slave ? 
 
 Would run on errands ^ and make legs, for crums. 
 
 Well, what He do 
 
 VOLPONI<:. 
 
 The Court stayes for your worship. 
 
 I eene reioyce, Sir, at your worships happinesse, 
 
 And, that it fell into so learneti hands. 
 
 That understanti the fingering 
 
 172
 
 TH1-: KOXE 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 What do voii n^eane ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I meanc to be a siitor to your worship, 
 For the small tenement, out of reparations, 
 That, at the end ot your long row of houses. 
 By the Piscaria : It was, in Volpone s time, 
 Your predecessor, ere he grew diseas'd, 
 A handsome, pretty, custom'd baudy-house, 
 As any was in Venice (none disprais'd) 
 But fell with him ; His body, and that house 
 Decay'd together. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Come, Sir, leave your prating. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Why, if your worship give me but your hand, 
 That I may ha' the refusal) ; I have done. 
 'Tis a meere toy, to you, Sir ; candle rents : 
 As your learn'd worship knowes 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 What doe I know ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Mary, no end of your wealth. Sir, God decrease it. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Mistaking knave ! what, mock'st thou my mis-fortune } 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 His blessing on your heart, Sir, would 'twere more. 
 Now, to my first againe ; at the next corner. 
 
 173
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 ACT ^. SCENE 8. 
 
 CORBACCIO. CORVINO. (MOSCA passant). VOLPONE. 
 
 See, in our habite ! see the impudent varlet ! 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 That I could shoote mine eyes at him, like gun-stones ! 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 But is this true, Sir, of the Parasite ? 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Againe, t' afflict us ^ Monster ! 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 In good faith, Sir, 
 
 r am hartilv greev'd, a beard of your grave length 
 
 Should be so over-reach'd. I never brook'd 
 
 That Parasites hayre ; mee thought his nose should cosen, 
 
 There still was somewhat, in his looke, did promise 
 
 The bane of a Clarissimo. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Knave 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Meethinkes 
 
 Yet you, that are so traded i' the world, 
 
 A witty merchant, the find bird, Corvino, 
 
 That have such morall Emblemes on your name, 
 
 Should not have sung your shame ; and dropt your cheese 
 
 To let the FoxE laugh at your emptinesse. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Sirrah, you thinke, the [iriviledge of the place. 
 And your red saucy ca|i, that seemes (to mee) 
 Nayl'd to your iolt-heail, witli those two Ceccliines., 
 
 174
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 Can warrant your abuses ; come you, hither : 
 You shall perceive, Sir, I dare beate you. Approch. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 No hast, Sir, I do know your valure, well. 
 Since you durst publish what you are, Sir. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Tarry, 
 
 Il'd speake with you. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Sir, another time 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Nay, now. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 O God, Sir ! I were a wise man, 
 
 Would stand the fury of a distracted cuckold. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What ! come againe .'' 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Upon 'hem, Mosca ; save mee. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 The ayre's infected, where he breathes. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Lets flye him. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Excellent Basiliske ! Turne upon the Vulture. 
 
 175
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 ACT ^. SCENE 9. 
 
 VOLTORE. MOSCA. VOLPONE. 
 
 Well, flesh-flie, it is Sommer with you, now ; 
 Your Winter will come on. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Good Advocate, 
 
 'Pray thee, not rayle, nor threaten out of place, thus ; 
 
 Thoult make a solarisme (as Madam sayes). 
 
 Get you a biggen, more : your brayne breakes loose. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Well, Sir. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Would you have nice beate the insolent slave .'' 
 Throw durt, uppon his first good cloathes ? 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 This same 
 
 Is, doubtlesse, some Fi!>iii/iar ! 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Sir, the Court, 
 
 In troth, stayes for you. I am madd, a Mule 
 That never read lustinian, should get up. 
 And ride an Advocate. Had you no cpiirk 
 To avoide gidlage. Sir, b\' such a creature? 
 I hope you do but iest ; he has not done 't : 
 This 's but confederacy, to bluulc the rest. 
 \'ou are the heyre .' 
 
 \'oi;roKi-:. 
 
 A strange, officious. 
 
 Trouble-some knave! thou dost torment mee. 
 
 176
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I know- 
 
 It cannot bee, Sir, that you should be cosen'd ; 
 
 'Tis not within the wit of man, to do it : 
 
 You are so wise, so prudent— And, 'tis fit 
 
 That wealth, and vvisdome still, should go together. 
 
 ACT ^. SCENE 10. 
 
 AVOCATORI 4. NOTARIO. COMMANDADORI. BONARIO. 
 CELIA. CORBACCTO. CORVINO. VOLTORIv VOLPONE. 
 
 Are all the parties, here .'' 
 
 NOTARIO. 
 
 All, but the Advocate. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 And, here he comes. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Then bring 'hem forth, to sentence. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 O, my most honourd Fathers, let your mercy 
 Once winne upon your iustice, to forgive — 
 I am distracted 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 What will he do, now .'' 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 O, 
 
 I know not which to addresse my selfe to, first ; 
 Whether your Father-hoods, or these innocents 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Will hee betray himselfe .-' 
 
 177 z
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Whome, equally 
 
 I have abus'd, out of most covetous endes 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 The man is mad ! 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What's that? 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Hee is possest. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 For which; now strooke in conscience, here I prostrate 
 My selte at your ofFeiided feete, for pardon. 
 
 AVOCATORl 1, 2. 
 Arise. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 O heav'n, how iust thou art ! 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 r am caught 
 
 r myne owne noose 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Be constant, Sir, nought now 
 Can hcljie, but imputlence. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Speake forward. 
 
 COMMANDADORI. 
 
 Silence. 
 
 voi.roRi-:. 
 
 It is not passion in mce, reverend l-'athers, 
 But onely conscience, conscience, my go(ni Sires, 
 'I'har makes me, ni>w, tell trueth. I'hat Punisitc, 
 That Knave, hath heene the instiniment of all 
 
 I/.S
 
 I'HE FOXE 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Where is that Knave? fetch him. 
 VOLPONE. 
 I go. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Grave Fathers^ 
 
 This man's distracted, he contest it, now ; 
 For, hoping to bee old Volpone s heyre, 
 Who now is dead 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 How ? 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Is Volpone dead .'' 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Dead since, grave Fathers. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 O, sure vengeance ! 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Stay — 
 
 Then, he was no deceiver .'' 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 0, no, none : 
 
 The Parasite, grave Fathers 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 He do's speake. 
 
 Out of mere envie, 'cause the servant's made 
 
 The thing, he gap't for ; please your Father-hoods, 
 
 This Is the truth : though, He not iustifie 
 
 The other, but he may bee somewhere faulty. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 1, to your hopes, as well as mine, Corvino : 
 But He use niodesty. 'Pleaseth ytnir wisdomes, 
 
 179
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 To viewe these certaine notes, and but coiiferre them ; 
 And as 1 hope favour, they shall speake cleare truth. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 The Devill ha's entred him. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Or bides in you. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Wee have done ill, by a publike Officer 
 To send for him, if he be heire. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 For whome .'' 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Him, that they call the Parasite. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 'Tis true ; 
 
 He is a man, of great estate, now left. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Goe you, and learne his name ; and say, the Court 
 Intreates his presence, here : but, to the clearing 
 Of some few doubts. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 This same's a labyrinth ! 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Stand you unto your first report ^ 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 My state. 
 
 My life, my fame 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Where is 't '. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Are at the stake. 
 
 180
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Is yours so too ? 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 The Advocate's a knave : 
 And has a forked tongue 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Speake to the point. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 So is the Parasite, too. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 This is confusion. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 I do beseech your Father-hoods, read but those- 
 CORVINO. 
 
 And credit nothing, the false spirit hath writ, 
 It cannot be (my Sires) but he is possest. 
 
 ACT ^. SCENE II. 
 
 VOLPONE. NANO. ANDROGYNO. CASTRONE. 
 
 To make a snare, for mine owne neck ! and run 
 
 My head into it, wilfully ! with laughter ! 
 
 When I had newly scap't, was free, and cleare ! 
 
 Out of mere wantonnesse ! 6, the dull Devill 
 
 Was in this braine of mine, when I devis'd it ; 
 
 And Mosca gave it second. He must now 
 
 Helpe to scare up this veyne, or we bleed dead. 
 
 How now ! who let you loose .? whether go you, now ? 
 
 What ? to buy Ginger-bread ? or to drown Kitlings ? 
 
 181
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 NANO. 
 
 Sir, Maister Mosca call'd us out of dores, 
 And bid us all go play, and tooke the keyes. 
 
 ANDROGYNO. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Did Maister Mosca take the keyes ? why, so ! 
 
 I am farder, in. These are my fine conceipts ! 
 
 I must be merry, with a mischiefe to me ! 
 
 What a vile wretch was I, that could not beare 
 
 My fortune, soberly ^ I must ha' my Crochets ! 
 
 And my Conundrums I Well, go you, and seeke him 
 
 His meaning may be truer, then my feare. 
 
 Bid him he, streight, come to me, to the Court ; 
 
 Thether will I ; and, if 't be possible, 
 
 Uii-screw my Advocate, upon new hopes : 
 
 When I provok'd him, then I lost my selfe. 
 
 ACT ^. SCENE 12. 
 
 AVOCATORI, ^c. 
 
 These things can nere be reconcil'd. He, here, 
 Professeth, that the Gentleman was wrong'd, 
 And that the Gentlewoman was brought thether, 
 Forc'd by her husband : and there Ictt. 
 
 VOLTOR]':. 
 
 Most true. 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 How ready is heav'n to those, that pray. 
 
 AVOCATORI'. I. 
 
 But that 
 
 1^2
 
 FHli FOXE 
 
 Volpone would have ravish'd her, he holds 
 Utterly false ; knowing his impotence. 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Grave Fathers, he is possest ; againe, I say, 
 Possest : nay, if there be possession, and 
 Obsession, he has both. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 Here comes our Officer. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 The Parasite will streight be, here, grave Fathers. 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 You might invent some other name. Sir varlet. 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 Did not the Notarie meet him } 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Not, that I know. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 His comming will cleare all. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Yet it is misty. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 May't please your Father-hoods 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Sir, the Parasite 
 
 Will'd me to tell you, that his Maister lives ; 
 That you are still the man ; your hopes the same ; 
 And this was onely a iest 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 How .? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Sir, to trie 
 
 It you were firme, and how yon stood affected. 
 
 I Si
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Art 'sure he lives ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Do I live, Sir ? 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 me ! 
 
 1 was too violent. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Sir, you may redeeme it. 
 
 They said, you were possest ; fall downe, and seeme so : 
 
 He helpe to make it good. God blesse the man ! 
 
 Stop your wind hard, and swell : See, see, see, see ! 
 
 He vomits crooked pinnes ! his eyes are set. 
 
 Like a dead hares, hung in a poulters shop ! 
 
 His mouth's running away ! Do you see, Signior ? 
 
 Now 'tis in his belly ! 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I, the Devill ! 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Now, in his throate. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 I, I perceive it plaine. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 'Twill out, 'twill out; stand cleere. See, where it flyes ! 
 In shape of a blew toad, with a battes wings ! 
 Do you not see it, Sir .'' 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 What.? I thinke 1 iloe. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 'Tis too manifest. 
 
 VOLPONi:. 
 
 L'idke ! he cnnies t'himselfe! 
 
 184
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Where am 1 ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Take good heart, the worst is past, Sir. 
 You are dis-possest. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 What accident is this ? 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Sodaine, and full of wonder ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 If hee were 
 
 Possest, as it appeares, all this is nothing. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 He has beene often, subiect to these fitts. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Shew him that writing, do you know it, Sir ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Deny it, Sir, forsweare it, know it not. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Yes, I do know it well, it is my hand : 
 But all, that it containes, is false. 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 O practise ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 What maze is this ! 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Is hee not guilty, then, 
 
 Whome you, there, name the Parasite ? 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Grave Fathers, 
 
 No more then, his good Patron, old Volpone. 
 
 185 AA
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Why, hee is dead ? 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 no, my honor'd Fathers, 
 Hee lives 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 How ! lives ? 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Lives. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 This is subtler, yet ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 You sayd, hee was dead. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 Never. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 You sayd so .'' 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 1 heard so. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Here comes the Gentleman ; make him way. 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 A stoole. 
 
 AVOCATORJ-: 4. 
 
 A proper man ! and, were Volpone dead, 
 A fit match tor my daiightcr. 
 
 AVOCATORl', 3. 
 
 Give him way. 
 
 VOLPON]-:. 
 
 Mosca, I was almost lost, the /Vth'ocate 
 Had betrayd all ; hut, now, it is recovcr'd : 
 Al's (111 the heiige againe Say, 1 am living.
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 What busie knave is this. Most reverend Fathers, 
 I, sooner, had attended your grave pleasures, 
 But that my order, for the funerall 
 
 Ot my deare Patron liid require mee 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 {Mosca !) 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Whome I intend to Iniry, like a Gentleman 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I, quick, and cosen me of all. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Still stranger ! More intricate ! 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 And come about, againe ! 
 
 It is a match, my daughter is bestow'd. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 (Will you gi' mee halfe.-') 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Plrst, He bee hang'd. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I know. 
 
 Your voice is good, cry not so low'd. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Demand 
 
 The Advocate. Sir, did not you affirme 
 
 Volpone was alive } 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Yes, and he is ; 
 
 This Gent'man told me, so. (Thou shalt have halfe.) 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Whose drunkard is this same } speake some, that knowe him : 
 
 187
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 I never saw his face : (I cannot now 
 Afford it you so cheape. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 No?) 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 What say you ? 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 The Officer told mee. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I did, grave Fathers, 
 
 And will maintayne, he lives, with mine owne life, 
 And that this creature told me. (I was borne, 
 With all good starres my enemies.) 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Most grave Fathers, 
 
 If such an insolence, as this, must passe 
 Upon me, I am silent : ' 1 was not this, 
 For which you sent, I hope. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Take him away. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 ( Mosca.) 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 Let him be whipt. 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 (Wilt thou betray mee } 
 Cosen me }) 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 And taught, to bcare himselfc 
 Towartl a person ot his ranke. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Away. 
 
 188
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 I humbly thanke your Father-hoods. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Soft, soft : Whipt ? 
 
 And loose all that I have ? If I confesse, 
 
 It cannot bee much more. 
 
 AVOCATORE 4. 
 
 Sir, are you married ? 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 They'll bee ally'd anone ; I must be resolute : 
 The FoxE shall, here, uncase. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 (Patron.) 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 Nay, now, ' 
 
 My ruines shall not come alone ; your match 
 
 He hinder sure : my substance shall not glew you. 
 
 Nor screw you, into a Family. 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 (Why, Patron !) 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 I am Volpone, and this is my Knave ; 
 This, his owne Knave ; This, avrices Foole ; 
 This, a Chimera of Wittall, Foole, and Knave ; 
 And, reverend Fathers, since we all can hope 
 Nought, but a sentence, let's not now dispaire it. 
 You heare me breife. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 May it please your Father-hoods 
 
 COMMANDADORI. 
 
 Silence. 
 
 189
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 The knot is now undone, by miracle ! 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 Nothing can be more cleare. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 Or, can more prove 
 These innocent. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Give 'hem their liberty- 
 
 BONARIO. 
 
 Heaven could not, long, let such grosse crimes be hid. 
 
 AVOCATORE 2. 
 
 If this be held the high way, to get riches. 
 May I be poore. 
 
 AVOCATORE 3. 
 
 This's not the gaine, but torment. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 These possesse wealth, as sick men possesse Fevers, 
 Which, trulver, may be said to possesse them. 
 
 AXOCATORE 2. 
 
 Disrobe that Parasite. 
 
 CORVINO. MOSCA. 
 
 Most honor'd Fathers 
 
 AVOCATORh: i. 
 
 Can you plead aught to stay the course ot lustice ? 
 If you can, speake. 
 
 CORVINO. VOI.rORE. 
 
 We beg favor, 
 
 CELIA. 
 
 And mercy. 
 
 I go
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 You hurt your innocence, suing for the guilty. 
 Stand forth ; and, first, the Parasite. You appeare 
 T' have beene the chiefest minister, if not plotter, 
 In all these leud impostures ; and now, lastly, 
 Have, with your impudence, abus'd the Court, 
 And habite of a Gentleman of Venice, 
 Being a fellow of no birth, or bloud : 
 For which, our sentence is, first, thou be whipt ; 
 Then live perpetuall prisoner in our C, allies. 
 
 VOLTORE. 
 
 I thanke you, for him, 
 
 MOSCA. 
 
 Bane to thy wolfish nature ! 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Deliver him to the Sajgi. Thou, Volpone, 
 
 By bloud, and ranke a Gentleman, canst not fall 
 
 Under like censure ; But our iudgement on thee 
 
 Is, that thy substance all be straight confiscate 
 
 To the Hospitall, of the Incur abili: 
 
 And, since the most was gotten by imposture. 
 
 By fayning lame, gout, palsey, and such diseases. 
 
 Thou art to lie in prison, crampt with irons, 
 
 'Till thou bee'st sick, and lame indeed. Remove him. 
 
 VOLPONE. 
 
 This is called mortifying of a Foxe. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Thou Voltore, to take away the scandale 
 Thou hast giv'n all worthy men, of thy profession. 
 Art banish'd from their Fellowship, and our State. 
 Corbaccio, bring him neare. We here possesse 
 Thy Sonne of all thy' estate ; and confine thee 
 
 191
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 To the Monastery of San Spirito : 
 
 Where, since thou knew'st not how to live well here, 
 
 Thou shalt be learn'd to die well. 
 
 CORBACCIO. 
 
 Ha ! what said he ? 
 
 COMMANDADORE. 
 
 You shall know anone, Sir. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 Thou Corz'ino, shalt 
 
 Be straight imbarqu'd from thine owne house, and row'd 
 
 Round about Venice, through the grand Canale, 
 
 Wearing a cap, with fayre, long Asses eares, 
 
 Insteed of homes : and so, to mount (a paper 
 
 Pin'd on thy brest) to the Berlino. 
 
 CORVINO. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 And, have mine eyes beat out with stinking fish, 
 Brus'd fruit, and rotten egges. 'Tis well. I 'am glad, 
 I shall not see my shame, yet. 
 
 AVOCATORE i. 
 
 And to expiate 
 
 Thy wrongs done to thy wife, thou art to send her 
 Home, to her father, with her dowrie trebled : 
 And these are all your Judgments. 
 
 ALL. 
 
 (Honour'd luithers.) 
 
 AVOCATOR]-: I. 
 
 Which may not he revok'ii. Now, you begin 
 
 When crimes arc done, aiul jxist, and to be punish'd. 
 
 To thinke what your crimes are ; away, witli them. 
 
 Let all, that see these vices thus rewarded, 
 
 Take heart, antl love to study 'hem. Mischiefes feed 
 
 Like beasts, till they bee tat, and then they bleed. 
 
 19-2
 
 THE FOXE 
 
 VOI.PONK. 
 
 The seasoiiinc; ot ;i P/ii\ is the aiiphuisc. 
 
 Now, though the I'lixr W piinishM In' the hiwcs, 
 
 He, yet, doth hope there is no suftViiig due, 
 
 Kor any fact, which he hath tlone 'gainst you ; 
 
 If there he, censure him : here he, doubtfull, stands. 
 
 It not, tare lovially, and clap your hands. 
 
 THE END 
 
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