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up All those offensive savours: it transforms The most deformed, and restores them lovely, As 'twere the strange poetical girdle. Jove Could not invent t' himself a shroud more subtle To pass Acrisius' guards. It is the thing Makes all the world her grace, her youth, her beauty. VOLP: I think she loves me. MOS: Who? the lady, sir? She's jealous of you. VOLP: Dost thou say so? [KNOCKING WITHIN.] MOS: Hark, There's some already. VOLP: Look. MOS: It is the Vulture: He has the quickest scent. VOLP: I'll to my place, Thou to thy posture. [GOES BEHIND THE CURTAIN.] MOS: I am set. VOLP: But, Mosca, Play the artificer now, torture them rarely. [ENTER VOLTORE.] VOLT: How now, my Mosca? MOS [WRITING.]: "Turkey carpets, nine"-- VOLT: Taking an inventory! that is well. MOS: "Two suits of bedding, tissue"-- VOLT: Where's the Will? Let me read that the while. [ENTER SERVANTS, WITH CORBACCIO IN A CHAIR.] CORB: So, set me down: And get you home. [EXEUNT SERVANTS.] VOLT: Is he come now, to trouble us! MOS: "Of cloth of gold, two more"-- CORB: Is it done, Mosca? MOS: "Of several velvets, eight"-- VOLT: I like his care. CORB: Dost thou not hear? [ENTER CORVINO.] CORB: Ha! is the hour come, Mosca? VOLP [PEEPING OVER THE CURTAIN.]: Ay, now, they muster. CORV: What does the advocate here, Or this Corbaccio? CORB: What do these here? [ENTER LADY POL. WOULD-BE.] LADY P: Mosca! Is his thread spun? MOS: "Eight chests of linen"-- VOLP: O, My fine dame Would-be, too! CORV: Mosca, the Will, That I may shew it these, and rid them hence. MOS: "Six chests of diaper, four of damask."--There. [GIVES THEM THE WILL CARELESSLY, OVER HIS SHOULDER.] CORB: Is that the will? MOS: "Down-beds, and bolsters"-- VOLP: Rare! Be busy still. Now they begin to flutter: They never think of me. Look, see, see, see! How their swift eyes run over the long deed, Unto the name, and to the legacies, What is bequeath'd them there-- MOS: "Ten suits of hangings"-- VOLP: Ay, in their garters, Mosca. Now their hopes Are at the gasp. VOL
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