sacrifice of vengeance,
Before this altar, and this dross, thy idol.—
Lady, let’s quit the place, it is the den
Of villainy; fear nought, you have a guard:
And he, ere long, shall meet his just reward.

Volp. Fall on me, roof, and bury me in ruin!
Become my grave, that wert my shelter! O!
I am unmask’d, unspirited, undone,
Betray’d to beggary, to infamy—

Mos. Where shall I run, most wretched shame of men,
To beat out my unlucky brains?

Volp. Here, here.
What! dost thou bleed?

Mos. O that his well-driv’n sword
Had been so courteous to have cleft me down
Unto the navel, ere I lived to see
My life, my hopes, my spirits, my patron, all
Thus desperately engaged, by my error!

Volp. Woe on thy fortune!

Mos. And my follies, sir.

Volp. Thou hast made me miserable.

Mos. And myself, sir.

Volp. What shall we do?

Mos. I know not; if my heart
Could expiate the mischance, I’d pluck it out.
Will you be pleased to hang me, or cut my throat?
And I’ll requite you, sir. Let’s die like Romans,
Since we have lived like Grecians.

Volp. Hark! who’s there?
I hear some footing; officers, the saffi,
Come to apprehend us! I do feel the brand
Hissing already at my forehead; now,
Mine ears are boring.

[Volpone lies down, as before.]

Mos. To your couch, sir, you,
Make that place good, however.
—Guilty men
Suspect what they deserve still.

Enter Corbaccio.

Corb. Why, how now, Mosca?

Mos. O, undone, amazed, sir.
Your son, I know not by what accident,
Acquainted with your purpose to my patron,
Touching your Will, and making him your heir,
Enter’d our house with violence, his sword drawn
Sought for you, call’d you wretch, unnatural,
Vow’d he would kill you.

Corb. Me!

Mos. Yes, and my patron.

Corb. This act shall disinherit him indeed;
Here is the Will.

Mos. ’Tis well, sir.