Mos. Nay, gentle lady, be advised.
Corv. No, no.
She has watch’d her time. Ods precious, this is scurvy,
’Tis very scurvy; and you are—
Mos. Nay, good sir.
Corv. An arrant locust, by heaven, a locust!
Whore, crocodile, that hast thy tears prepared,
Expecting
how thou’lt bid them flow—
Mos. Nay, ’pray you, sir!
She will consider.
Cel. Would my life would serve
To satisfy—
Corv. S’death! if she would but speak to him,
And save my reputation, it were somewhat;
But spightfully
to affect my utter ruin!
Mos. Ay, now you have put your fortune in her hands.
Why i’faith, it is her modesty, I must quit her.
If you
were absent, she would be more coming;
I know it: and dare undertake for her.
What woman can before
her husband? ’pray you,
Let us depart, and leave her here.
Corv. Sweet Celia,
Thou may’st redeem all, yet; I’ll say no more:
If not, esteem yourself as lost. Nay, stay
there.
[Shuts the door, and exit with Mosca.
Cel. O God, and his good angels! whither, whither,
Is shame fled human breasts? that with such ease,
Men
dare put off your honours, and their own?
Is that, which ever was a cause of life,
Now placed beneath the
basest circumstance,
And modesty an exile made, for money?
[Leaping from his couch.
Volp. Ay, in Corvino, and such earth-fed minds,
That never tasted the true heaven of love.
Assure thee,
Celia, he that would sell thee,
Only for hope of gain, and that uncertain,
He would have sold his part of
Paradise
For ready money, had he met a cope-man.
Why art thou mazed to see me thus revived?
Rather
applaud thy beauty’s miracle;
’Tis thy great work: that hath, not now alone,
But sundry times raised me,
in several shapes,
And, but this morning, like a mountebank,
To see thee at thy window: ay, before
I would
have left my practice, for thy love,
In varying figures, I would have contended
With the blue Proteus, or
the horned flood.
Now art thou welcome.
Cel. Sir!
Volp. Nay, fly me not.
Nor let thy false imagination
That I was bed-rid, make thee think I am so:
Thou shalt
not find it. I am, now, as fresh,
As hot, as high, and in as jovial plight,
As when, in that so celebrated
scene,
At recitation of our comedy,
For entertainment of the great Valois,
I acted young Antinous; and attracted
The
eyes and ears of all the ladies present,
To admire each graceful gesture, note, and footing.
[Sings.
While we can, the sports of love,
Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever;
Spend not then his gifts in vain;
Suns, that set, may rise again;
But if once we lose this light,
’Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile,
Thus removed by our wile?—
’Tis no sin love’s fruits to steal:
But the sweet thefts to reveal;
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.
Cel. Some serene blast me, or dire lightning strike
This my offending face!
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