2 Mer. We’ll see his legs.

3 Mer. Ods so, he has garters!

1 Mer. Ay, and gloves!

2 Mer. Is this
Your fearful tortoise?

Per. [discovering himself.] Now, sir Pol, we are even;
For your next project I shall be prepared:
I am sorry for the funeral of your notes, sir.

1 Mer. ’Twere a rare motion to be seen in Fleet-street.

2 Mer. Ay, in the Term.

1 Mer. Or Smithfield, in the fair.

3 Mer. Methinks ’tis but a melancholy sight.

Per. Farewell, most politic tortoise!

[Exeunt Per. and Merchants.

Re-enter Waiting-woman.

Sir P. Where’s my lady?
Knows she of this?

Wom. I know not, sir.

Sir P. Enquire.—
O, I shall be the fable of all feasts,
The freight of the gazetti, ship-boy’s tale;
And, which is worst, even talk for ordinaries.

Wom. My lady’s come most melancholy home,
And says, sir, she will straight to sea, for physic.

Sir P. And I to shun this place and clime for ever,
Creeping with house on back, and think it well
To shrink my poor head in my politic shell.

[Exeunt.

Scene III—A Room in Volpone’s House.

Enter Mosca in the habit of a Clarissimo, and Volpone in that of a Commandadore.

Volp. Am I then like him?

Mos. O, sir, you are he:
No man can sever you.

Volp. Good.

Mos. But what am I?

Volp. ’Fore heaven, a brave clarissimo; thou becom’st it!
Pity thou wert not born one.

Mos. If I hold
My made one, ’twill be well.