Mos. Without a partner, sir; confirm’d this morning:
The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry
Upon the parchment.

Volt. Happy, happy, me!
By what good chance, sweet Mosca?

Mos. Your desert, sir;
I know no second cause.

Volt. Thy modesty
Is not to know it; well, we shall requite it.

Mos. He ever liked your course, sir; that first took him.
I oft have heard him say, how he admired
Men of your large profession, that could speak
To every cause, and things mere contraries,
Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law;
That, with most quick agility, could turn,
And [re-] return; [could] make knots, and undo them;
Give forked counsel; take provoking gold
On either hand, and put it up: these men,
He knew, would thrive with their humility.
And, for his part, he thought he should be blest
To have his heir of such a suffering spirit,
So wise, so grave, of so perplex’d a tongue,
And loud withal, that would not wag, nor scarce
Lie still, without a fee; when every word
Your worship but lets fall, is a chequin!—

Volt. Mosca!—

Mos. When will you have your inventory brought, sir?
Or see a copy of the will?—Anon!—
I’ll bring them to you, sir. Away, be gone,
Put business in your face.

[Exit Voltore.

Volp. [springing up.] Excellent Mosca!
Come hither, let me kiss thee.

Mos. Keep you still, sir.
Here is Corbaccio.

Volp. Set the plate away:
The vulture’s gone, and the old raven’s come!

Mos. Betake you to your silence, and your sleep.
Stand there and multiply. [Putting the plate to the rest.] Now,
Shall we see
A wretch who is indeed more impotent
Than this can feign to be; yet hopes to hop
Over his grave—

Corb. How does your patron?

Mos. Troth, as he did, sir; no amends.

Corb. What! mends he?

Mos. No, sir: he’s rather worse.

Corb. That’s well. Where is he?

Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall’n asleep.