Volpone Or the Fox Part 4

MOS: Troth, as he did, sir; no amends.

CORB: What! mends he?

MOS: No, sir: he's rather worse.

CORB: That's well. Where is he?

MOS: Upon his couch sir, newly fall'n asleep.

CORB: Does he sleep well?

MOS: No wink, sir, all this night.

Nor yesterday; but slumbers.

CORB: Good! he should take Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him An opiate here, from mine own doctor.

MOS: He will not hear of drugs.

CORB: Why? I myself Stood by while it was made; saw all the ingredients: And know, it cannot but most gently work: My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep.

VOLP [ASIDE.]: Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it.

MOS: Sir, He has no faith in physic.

CORB: 'Say you? 'say you?

MOS: He has no faith in physic: he does think Most of your doctors are the greater danger, And worse disease, to escape. I often have Heard him protest, that your physician Should never be his heir.

CORB: Not I his heir?

MOS: Not your physician, sir.

CORB: O, no, no, no, I do not mean it.

MOS: No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook: he says, they flay a man, Before they kill him.

CORB: Right, I do conceive you.

MOS: And then they do it by experiment; For which the law not only doth absolve them, But gives them great reward: and he is loth To hire his death, so.

CORB: It is true, they kill, With as much license as a judge.

MOS: Nay, more; For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him too.

CORB: Ay, or me; Or any man. How does his apoplex?

Is that strong on him still?

MOS: Most violent.

His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, His face drawn longer than 'twas wont-

CORB: How! how!

Stronger then he was wont?

MOS: No, sir: his face Drawn longer than 'twas wont.

CORB: O, good!

MOS: His mouth Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang.

CORB: Good.

MOS: A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints, And makes the colour of his flesh like lead.

CORB: 'Tis good.

MOS: His pulse beats slow, and dull.

CORB: Good symptoms, still.

MOS: And from his brain-

CORB: I conceive you; good.

MOS: Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum, Forth the resolved corners of his eyes.

CORB: Is't possible? yet I am better, ha!

How does he, with the swimming of his head?

B: O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy; he now Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes.

CORB: Excellent, excellent! sure I shall outlast him: This makes me young again, a score of years.

MOS: I was a coming for you, sir.

CORB: Has he made his will?

What has he given me?

MOS: No, sir.

CORB: Nothing! ha?

MOS: He has not made his will, sir.

CORB: Oh, oh, oh!

But what did Voltore, the Lawyer, here?

MOS: He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard My master was about his testament; As I did urge him to it for your good-

CORB: He came unto him, did he? I thought so.