Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good;
He knows no man.

Corv. How shall I do then?

Mos. Why, sir?

Corv. I have brought him here a pearl.

Mos. Perhaps he has
So much remembrance left, as to know you, sir:
He still calls on you; nothing but your name
Is in his mouth. Is your pearl orient, sir?

Corv. Venice was never owner of the like.

Volp. [faintly.] Signior Corvino!

Mos. Hark.

Volp. Signior Corvino!

Mos. He calls you; step and give it him.—He’s here, sir,
And he has brought you a rich pearl.

Corv. How do you, sir?
Tell him, it doubles the twelfth caract.

Mos. Sir,
He cannot understand, his hearing’s gone;
And yet it comforts him to see you—

Corv. Say,
I have a diamond for him, too.

Mos. Best shew it, sir;
Put it into his hand; ’tis only there
He apprehends: he has his feeling, yet.
See how he grasps it!

Corv. ’Las, good gentleman!
How pitiful the sight is!

Mos. Tut! forget, sir.
The weeping of an heir should still be laughter
Under a visor.

Corv. Why, am I his heir?

Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will
Till he be dead; but here has been Corbaccio,
Here has been Voltore, here were others too,
I cannot number ’em, they were so many;
All gaping here for legacies: but I,
Taking the vantage of his naming you,
Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino, took
Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I asked him,
Whom he would have his heir? Corvino. Who
Should be executor? Corvino. And,
To any question he was silent to,
I still interpreted the nods he made,
Through weakness, for consent: and sent home th’ others,
Nothing bequeath’d them, but to cry and curse.

Corv. O, my dear Mosca! [They embrace.] Does he not perceive
us?

Mos. No more than a blind harper. He knows no man,
No face of friend, nor name of any servant,
Who ’twas that fed him last, or gave him drink:
Not those he hath begotten, or brought up,
Can he remember.

Corv. Has he children?

Mos. Bastards,
Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars,
Gypsies, and Jews, and black-moors, when he was drunk.
Knew you not that, sir? ’tis the common fable.
The dwarf, the fool, the eunuch, are all his;
He’s the true father of his family,
In all, save me:—but he has given them nothing.

Corv. That’s well, that’s well! Art sure he does not hear us?