SCENE V.
Corvino, Celia, Servitore.
Corv. Death of mine Honour, with the Cities Fools A Juggling, Tooth-drawing, prating Mountebank ? And at a publick Window? where, whilft he, With his ftrain'd Action, and his dole of Faces, To his Drug-lecture draws your itching Ears, A Crew of old, un-married, noted Lechers, Stood leering up like Satyrs: and you smile Moft graciously, and fan your Favours forth, To give your hot Spectators fatisfaction! What, was your Mountebank their Call? their Whistle? Or were you enamour'd on his Copper Rings? His Saffron Jewel, with the Toad-ftone in't? Or his imbroidered Sute, with the Cope-ftitch, Made of a Herfe-Cloth? or his old Tilt-feather? Or his ftarch'd Beard? well! you shall have him, yes: He shall come home, and Minister unto you
The Fricace for the Moother. Or, let me fee,
I think you had rather mount? would you not mount? Why, if you'll mount, you may; yes truly you may And fo, you may be feen, down to th' Foot." Get you a Cittern, Lady Vanity,
And be a dealer with the Virtuous Man ; Make one I'll but protest my self a Cuckold, And fave your Dowry. I am a Dutchman, I! For, if you thought me an Italian
You would be damn'd, e're you did this, you Thou'ldft tremble, to imagine, that the Murder Of Father, Mother, Brother, all thy Race, Should follow, as the Subject of my Juftice!
Cel. Good Sir have Patience! Coru. What could thou propofe
Lefs to thy felf, than in this heat of Wrath, And ftung with my difhonour, I should strike This Steel into thee, with as many Stabs, As thou wert gaz'd upon with Goatish Eyes? Cel. Alas, Sir, be appeas'd! I could not think My being at the Window, fhould more, now,
Move your impatience, than at other times. Coru. No? not to feek and entertain a Parley, With a known Knave? before a Multitude ? You were an Actor with your Handkerchief? Which, he, moft fweetly, kift in the Receipt, And might (no doubt) return it with a Letter, And point the Place, where you might meet your
Your Mothers, or your Aunts might serve the turn.
Cel. Why dear Sir, when do I make these Excufes Or ever ftir abroad, but to the Church?
Corv. Well, it shall be lefs; And thy restraint before was Liberty,
To what I now decree: and therefore mark me. Firft, I will have this bawdy Light dam'd up; And till't be done, fome two or three Yards off, I'll chalk a Line, o'er which, if thou but chance To fet thy defp'rate Foot; more Hell, more Horror, More wild remorfelefs Rage fhall feize on thee, Than on a Conjurer, that had heedlefs left His Circles fafety e're his Devil was laid. Then here's a Lock, which I will hang upon thee; And, now I think on't, I will keep thee backwards; Thy Lodging fhall be backwards; thy walks backwards; Thy Profpect all be backwards; and no pleasure, That thou shalt know but backwards: Nay, fince you force
My honeft Nature, know, it is your own Being too open, makes me use you thus. Since you will not contain your fubtil Noftrils In a sweet Room, but they must snuff the Air Of rank and fweaty Paffengers-
One knocks. [Knock within.
Away, and be not feen, pain of thy Life Nor look toward the Window: If thou doft- (Nay ftay, hear this) let me not profper, Whore,. But I will make thee an Anatomy,
Diffect thee mine own felf, and read a Lecture Upon thee to the City, and in Publick.
Away. Who's there? Ser. 'Tis Signior Mofca, Sir.
Corv. Let him come in, his Mafter's Dead: There's
yet Some good to help the bad. My Mofca, welcome, I guess your News. Mof. I fear you cannot, Sir.
Corv. Is't not his Death? Mof. Rather the contrary. Corv. Not his Recovery? Mof. Yes, Sir. Corv.. I am curs'd,
I am bewitch'd, my Croffes meet to vex me.
How? how? how? how? Mof. Why, Sir, with Scoto's Oyl!
Corbaccio, and Voltore brought of it, Whilft I was bufie in an inner Room-
Corv. Death! that damn'd Mountebank! but, for the Law
Now, I could kill the Rascal: 't cannot be,
His Oyl fhould have that Virtue. Ha' not I Known him a common Rogue, come fidling in
To the Ofteria, with a tumbling Whore,
And, when he has done all his forc'd Tricks, been glad Of a poor Spoonful of dead Wine, with Flies in't? It cannot be. All his Ingredients
Are a Sheep's Gall, a rosted Bitches Marrow, Some few fod Earwigs, pounded Caterpillers, A little Capon's Greafe, and Fafting Spittle: I know 'em to a Dram. Mof. I know not, Sir, But fome on't, there, they pour'd into his Ears, Some in his Noftrils, and recover'd him; Applying but the fricace. Carv. Pox o' that fricace.. Mof. And fince, to feem the more officious And flatt'ring of his Health, there, they have had (At extream Fees) the Colledge of Physicians Confulting on him, how they might restore him, Where one would have a Cataplafm of Spices, Another a flayd Ape clap'd to his Breast, A third would ha' it a Dog, a fourth an Oyl With wild Cats Skins: At laft, they all refolv'd
That, to preferve him, was no other means,
But fome Young Woman muft ftraight be fought out, Lufty, and full of Juice, to fleep by him; And to this Service (moft unhappily,
And most unwillingly) am I now employ'd, Which here I thought to pre-acquaint you with, For your Advice, fince it concerns you moft, Because, I would not do that thing might cross Your Ends, on whom I have my whole Dependance, Sir: Yet, if I do it not, they may delate
My flackness to my Patron, work me out Of his Opinion; and there all your hopes, Ventures, or whatsoever, are all fruftrate. I do but tell you, Sir. Befides they are all Now ftriving, who shall first present him. Therefore I could intreat you, briefly to conclude somewhat : Prevent 'em if you can. Corv. Death to my hopes! This is my villanous Fortune! Beft to hire
Some common Courtezan? Mof. I, I thought on that, Sir. But they are all fo fubtil, full of Art,
And age again doting and flexible,
Corv. 'Tis true. has no tricks, Sir, unto it;
So as I cannot tell- Light on a Quean, may cheat us all. Mof. No, no: it must be one that Some fimple thing, a Creature made Some Wench you may Command. Ha' you no Kins woman?
Gods fo Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, Sir.
One o' the Doctors offer'd there his Daughter.
Corv. How! Mof. Yes, Signior Lupo, the Phyfician. Corv. His Daughter? Mof. And a Virgin, Sir. Why? Alas,
He knows the ftate of's Body, what it is;
That nought can warm his Blood, Sir, but a Fever; Nor any incantation raife his Spirit :
A long forgetfulness hath feiz'd that part.
Befides, Sir, who fhall know it? fome one or two- Cory. I pray thee give me leave. If any Man But I had had this luck- -The Thing in't self, I know, is nothing-Wherefore fhould not I As
As well command my Blood and my Affections, As this dull Doctor? In the point of Honour, The Cafes are all one of Wife and Daughter.
Mof. I hear him coming. Corv. She fhall do't: 'Tisdone. Slight, if this Doctor, who is not engag'd, Unless 't be for his Counfel (which is nothing) Offer his Daughter, what fhould I, that am So deeply in? I will prevent him, Wretch! Covetous Wretch! Mofca, I have determin'd. Mof. How, Sir?
Corv. We'll make all fure. The
Shall be mine own Wife, Mofca. Mof. Sir, the Thing (But that I would not seem to counsel you)
i fhould have motion'd to you at the firft: And make your count, you have cut all their Throats Why? 'Tis directly taking a Poffeffion! And, in his next Fit, we may let him go. 'Tis but to pull the Pillow from his Head, And he is thratled: 't had been done before,
But for your fcrupulous Doubts. Corv. I, a plague on't, My Confcience fools my Wit. Well, I'll be brief, And fo be thou, left they should be before us: Go home, prepare him, tell him with what Zeal, And Willingness I do it for; fwear it was On the first Hearing (as thou may't do, truly) Mine own free Motion. Mof. Sir, I warrant you, I'll fo poffefs him with it, that the rest Of his starv'd Clients fhall be banish'd all ; And only you receiv'd. But come not, Sir, Until I fend, for I have fomething else
To ripen for your good (you must not know't).
Corv. But do not you forget tofend now. Mof. Fear not.
Cor. Where are you, Wife? My Celia? Wife? What blubbering?
Come, dry thofe Tears. I think thou thoughtest me
Ha? By this Light I talk'd fo but to try thee. Methinks, the Lightness of the Occafion
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