Mos. Most blessed cordial!
This will recover him.

Corb. Yes, do, do, do.

Mos. I think it were not best, sir.

Corb. What?

Mos. To recover him.

Corb. O, no, no, no; by no means.

Mos. Why, sir, this
Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it.

Corb. ’Tis true, therefore forbear; I’ll take my venture:
Give me it again.

Mos. At no hand; pardon me:
You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I
Will so advise you, you shall have it all.

Corb. How?

Mos. All, sir; ’tis your right, your own: no man
Can claim a part: ’tis yours, without a rival,
Decreed by destiny.

Corb. How, how, good Mosca?

Mos. I’ll tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover.

Corb. I do conceive you.

Mos. And, on first advantage
Of his gain’d sense, will I re-importune him
Unto the making of his testament:
And shew him this.

[Pointing to the money.

Corb. Good, good.

Mos. ’Tis better yet,
If you will hear, sir.

Corb. Yes, with all my heart.

Mos. Now, would I counsel you, make home with speed;
There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe
My master your sole heir.

Corb. And disinherit
My son!

Mos. O, sir, the better: for that colour
Shall make it much more taking.

Corb. O, but colour?

Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me.
Now, when I come to inforce, as I will do,
Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers,
Your more than many gifts, your this day’s present,
And last, produce your will; where, without thought,
Or least regard, unto your proper issue,
A son so brave, and highly meriting,
The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you
Upon my master, and made him your heir:
He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead,
But out of conscience, and mere gratitude—

Corb. He must pronounce me his?