Corb. Mosca the heir!

Volp. O, his four eyes have found it.

Corb. I am cozen’d, cheated, by a parasite slave;
Harlot, thou hast gull’d me.

Mos. Yes, sir. Stop your mouth,
Or I shall draw the only tooth is left.
Are not you he, that filthy covetous wretch,
With the three legs, that here, in hope of prey,
Have, any time this three years, snuff’d about,
With your most grovelling nose, and would have hired
Me to the poisoning of my patron, sir?
Are not you he that have to-day in court
Profess’d the disinheriting of your son?
Perjured yourself? Go home, and die, and stink.
If you but croak a syllable, all comes out:
Away, and call your porters! [Exit Corbaccio.] Go, go, stink.

Volp. Excellent varlet!

Volt. Now, my faithful Mosca,
I find thy constancy.

Mos. Sir!

Volt. Sincere.

Mos. [writing.] A table
Of porphyry—I marle you’ll be thus troublesome.

Volt. Nay, leave off now, they are gone.

Mos. Why, who are you?
What! who did send for you? O, cry you mercy,
Reverend sir! Good faith, I am grieved for you,
That any chance of mine should thus defeat
Your (I must needs say) most deserving travails:
But I protest, sir, it was cast upon me,
And I could almost wish to be without it,
But that the will o’ the dead must be observ’d.
Marry, my joy is that you need it not;
You have a gift, sir, (thank your education,)
Will never let you want, while there are men,
And malice, to breed causes. Would I had
But half the like, for all my fortune, sir!
If I have any suits, as I do hope,
Things being so easy and direct, I shall not,
I will make bold with your obstreperous aid,
Conceive me,—for your fee, sir. In mean time,
You that have so much law, I know have the conscience
Not to be covetous of what is mine.
Good sir, I thank you for my plate; ’twill help
To set up a young man. Good faith, you look
As you were costive; best go home and purge, sir.

Volp. [comes from behind the curtain.] Bid him eat lettuce well.
My witty mischief,
Let me embrace thee. O that I could now
Transform thee to a Venus!—Mosca, go,
Straight take my habit of clarissimo,
And walk the streets; be seen, torment them more:
We must pursue, as well as plot. Who would
Have lost this feast?

Mos. I doubt it will lose them.

Volp. O, my recovery shall recover all.
That I could now but think on some disguise
To meet them in, and ask them questions:
How I would vex them still at every turn!

Mos. Sir, I can fit you.

Volp. Canst thou?

Mos. Yes, I know
One o’ the commandadori, sir, so like you;
Him will I straight make drunk, and bring you his habit.

Volp. A rare disguise, and answering thy brain!
O, I will be a sharp disease unto them.

Mos. Sir, you must look for curses—