h.

MOS: Castrone, Nano!

[ENTER CASTRONE AND NANO.]

NANO: Here.

VOLP: Shall we have a jig now?

MOS: What you please, sir.

VOLP: Go,
Straight give out about the streets, you two,
That I am dead; do it with constancy,
Sadly, do you hear? impute it to the grief
Of this late slander.

[EXEUNT CAST. AND NANO.]

MOS: What do you mean, sir?

VOLP: O,
I shall have instantly my Vulture, Crow,
Raven, come flying hither, on the news,
To peck for carrion, my she-wolfe, and all,
Greedy, and full of expectation--

MOS: And then to have it ravish'd from their mouths!

VOLP: 'Tis true. I will have thee put on a gown,
And take upon thee, as thou wert mine heir:
Shew them a will; Open that chest, and reach
Forth one of those that has the blanks; I'll straight
Put in thy name.

MOS [GIVES HIM A PAPER.]: It will be rare, sir.

VOLP: Ay,
When they ev'n gape, and find themselves deluded--

MOS: Yes.

VOLP: And thou use them scurvily!
Dispatch, get on thy gown.

MOS [PUTTING ON A GOWN.]: But, what, sir, if they ask
After the body?

VOLP: Say, it was corrupted.

MOS: I'll say it stunk, sir; and was fain to have it
Coffin'd up instantly, and sent away.

VOLP: Any thing; what thou wilt. Hold, here's my will.
Get thee a cap, a count-book, pen and ink,
Papers afore thee; sit as thou wert taking
An inventory of parcels: I'll get up
Behind the curtain, on a stool, and hearken;
Sometime peep over, see how they do look,
With what degrees their blood doth leave their faces,
O, 'twill afford me a rare meal of laughter!

MOS [PUTTING ON A CAP, AND SETTING OUT THE TABLE, ETC.]:
Your advocate will turn stark dull upon it.

VOLP: It will take off his oratory's edge.

MOS: But your clarissimo, old round-back, he
Will crump you like a hog-louse, with the touch.

VOLP: And what Corvino?

MOS: O, sir, look for him,
To-morrow morning, with a rope and dagger,
To visit all the streets; he must run mad.
My lady too, that came into the court,
To bear false witness for your worship--

VOLP: Yes,
And kist me 'fore the fathers; when my face
Flow'd all with oils.

MOS: And sweat, sir. Why, your gold
Is such another med'cine, it dries