Corv. ’Tis too manifest.

Volp. Look! he comes to himself!

Volt. Where am I?

Volp. Take good heart, the worst is past, sir.
You are dispossest.

1 Avoc. What accident is this!

2 Avoc. Sudden, and full of wonder!

3 Avoc. If he were
Possest, as it appears, all this is nothing.

Corv. He has been often subject to these fits.

1 Avoc. Shew him that writing:—do you know it, sir?

Volp. [whispers Volt.] Deny it, sir, forswear it; know it not.
Volt. Yes, I do know it well, it is my hand;
But all that it contains is false.

Bon. O practice!

2 Avoc. What maze is this!

1 Avoc. Is he not guilty then,
Whom you there name the parasite?

Volt. Grave fathers,
No more than his good patron, old Volpone.

4 Avoc. Why, he is dead.

Volt. O no, my honour’d fathers,
He lives.—

1 Avoc. How! lives?

Volt. Lives.

2 Avoc. This is subtler yet!

3 Avoc. You said he was dead.

Volt. Never.

3 Avoc. You said so.

Corv. I heard so.

4 Avoc. Here comes the gentleman; make him way.

Enter Mosca.

3 Avoc. A stool.

4 Avoc. A proper man; and, were Volpone dead,
A fit match for my daughter.

3 Avoc. Give him way.