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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