Mos. ’Tis true.

Corb. This plot
Did I think on before.

Mos. I do believe it.

Corb. Do you not believe it?

Mos. Yes, sir.

Corb. Mine own project.

Mos. Which, when he hath done, sir—

Corb. Publish’d me his heir?

Mos. And you so certain to survive him—

Corb. Ay.

Mos. Being so lusty a man—

Corb. ’Tis true.

Mos. Yes, sir—

Corb. I thought on that too. See, how he should be
The very organ to express my thoughts!

Mos. You have not only done yourself a good—

Corb. But multiplied it on my son.

Mos. ’Tis right, sir.

Corb. Still, my invention.

Mos. ’Las, sir! heaven knows,
It hath been all my study, all my care,
(I e’en grow gray withal,) how to work things—

Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca.

Mos. You are he,
For whom I labour here.

Corb. Ay, do, do, do:
I’ll straight about it.

[Going.

Mos. Rook go with you, raven!

Corb. I know thee honest.

Mos. You do lie, sir!

[Aside.

Corb. And—

Mos. Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir.