Audition Piece 1: Volpone, Mosca, Voltore, Corbaccio

Knocking without

VOLPONE: Who's that? Away! Look, Mosca.

MOSCA: 'Tis Signior Voltore, the advocate;
I know him by his knock.

VOLPONE: Fetch me my gown,
My furs and night-caps; say, my couch is changing,
And let him entertain himself awhile
Without i' the gallery. [Exit MOSCA]
Now, now, my clients
Begin their visitation! Vulture, kite,
Raven, and gorcrow, all my birds of prey,
That think me turning carcase, now they come;
I am not for them yet —

Re-enter MOSCA with the gown, etc

How now! the news?

MOSCA: A piece of plate, sir.

VOLPONE: Of what bigness?

MOSCA: Huge, massy, and antique, with your name inscribed,
And arms engraven.

VOLPONE: Good! and not a fox
Stretch'd on the earth, with fine delusive sleights,
Mocking a gaping crow? ha, Mosca?

MOSCA: Sharp, sir.

VOLPONE: Give me my furs. Why dost thou laugh so, man?

MOSCA: I cannot choose, sir, when I apprehend
What thoughts he has without now, as he walks:
That this might be the last gift he should give;
That this would fetch you; if you died to-day,
And gave him all, what he should be to-morrow;
What large return would come of all his ventures;
How he should worship'd be, and reverenced;
Ride with his furs, and foot-cloths; waited on
By herds of fools, and clients; have clear way
Made for his mule, as letter'd as himself;
Be call'd the great and learned advocate:
And then concludes, there's nought impossible.

VOLPONE: Yes, to be learned, Mosca.

MOSCA: O no: rich implies it.
VOLPONE: My caps, my caps, good Mosca. Fetch him in.

MOSCA: Stay, sir, your ointment for your eyes. You shall live,
Still, to delude these harpies.

VOLPONE: Loving Mosca! [Looking into a glass]
'Tis well: my pillow now, and let him enter.

Exit MOSCA

Now, my fain'd cough, my physic, and my gout,
My apoplexy, palsy, and catarrhs,
Help, with your forced functions, this my posture,
Wherein, this three year, I have milk'd their hopes.
He comes; I hear him —Uh! [Coughing] uh! uh! uh! O —

Enter MOSCA, with VOLTORE, bearing piece of plate; VOLPONE in bed

MOSCA: You still are what you were, sir. Only you,
Of all the rest, are he commands his love,
And you do wisely to preserve it thus,
With early visitation, and kind notes
Of your good meaning to him, which, I know,
Cannot but come most grateful. Patron! sir!
Here's Signior Voltore is come —

VOLPONE [faintly]: What say you?

MOSCA: Sir, Signior Voltore is come this morning
To visit you.

VOLPONE: I thank him.

MOSCA: And hath brought
A piece of antique plate, bought of St Mark,
With which he here presents you.

VOLPONE: He is welcome.
Pray him to come more often.

MOSCA: Yes.

VOLTORE: What says he?

MOSCA: He thanks you, and desires you see him often.

VOLPONE: Mosca.

MOSCA: My patron!

VOLPONE: Bring him near, where is he?
I long to feel his hand.

MOSCA [guiding Volpone’s hand]: The plate is here, sir.

VOLTORE: How fare you, sir?

VOLPONE: I thank you, Signior Voltore;
Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad.

VOLTORE [Putting it into his hand]: I'm sorry,
To see you still thus weak.

MOSCA [Aside]: That he's not weaker.

VOLPONE: I pray you see me often.

VOLTORE: Yes, I shall sir.

VOLPONE: Be not far from me.

MOSCA [to Voltore]: Do you observe that, sir?

VOLPONE: Hearken unto me still; it will concern you.

MOSCA: You are a happy man, sir; know your good.

VOLPONE: I cannot now last long —

MOSCA: You are his heir, sir.

VOLTORE: Am I?

VOLPONE: I feel me going; Uh! uh! uh! uh!
I'm sailing to my port, Uh! uh! uh! uh!
And I am glad I am so near my haven.

MOSCA: Alas, kind gentleman! Well, we must all go —

VOLTORE: But, Mosca —

MOSCA: Age will conquer.

VOLTORE: 'Pray thee hear me:
Am I inscribed his heir for certain?

MOSCA: Are you!
I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe
To write me i’ your family. All my hopes
Depend upon your worship: I am lost,
Except the rising sun do shine on me.

VOLTORE: It shall both shine, and warm thee, Mosca.
But am I sole heir?

MOSCA: Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this morning:
The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry
Upon the parchment.

VOLTORE: Happy, happy, me!
By what good chance, sweet Mosca?

MOSCA: Your desert, sir;
I know no second cause.

VOLTORE: Thy modesty
Is not to know it; well, we shall requite it.

MOSCA: He ever liked your course sir; that first took him.
I oft have heard him say, how he admired
Men of your large profession, that could speak
To every cause, and things mere contraries,
Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law;
That, with most quick agility, could turn,
And re-return; make knots, and undo them;
Give forked counsel; take provoking gold
On either hand, and put it up: these men,
He knew, would thrive with their humility.
And, for his part, he thought he should be blest
To have his heir of such a suffering spirit! —
Loud knocking without
Who's that? one knocks; I would not have you seen, sir.
And yet —pretend you came, and went in haste:
I'll fashion an excuse. —and, gentle sir,
When you do come to swim in golden lard,
Up to the arms in honey, that your chin
Is born up stiff, with fatness of the flood,
Think on your vassal; but remember me:
I have not been your worst of clients.

VOLTORE: Mosca! —

MOSCA: When will you have your inventory brought, sir?
Or see a copy of the will? [Knocking again] Anon!
I will bring them to you, sir. Away, be gone,
Put business in your face.

Exit VOLTORE

VOLPONE [Springing up]: Excellent Mosca!
Come hither, let me kiss thee.

MOSCA: Keep you still, sir.
Here is Corbaccio.

VOLPONE: Set the plate away:
The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come!

MOSCA: Betake you to your silence, and your sleep:
[Sets plate aside] Stand there and multiply. Now, shall we see
A wretch who is indeed more impotent
Than this can feign to be; yet hopes to hop
Over his grave —

Enter CORBACCIO

Signior Corbaccio!
You're very welcome, sir.

CORBACCIO: How does your patron?
MOSCA: Troth, as he did, sir; no amends.

CORBACCIO: What! mends he?

MOSCA: No, sir: he's rather worse.

CORBACCIO: That's well. Where is he?

MOSCA: Upon his couch sir, newly fall'n asleep.

CORBACCIO: Does he sleep well?

MOSCA: No wink, sir, all this night.
Nor yesterday; but slumbers.

CORBACCIO: Good! he should take
Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him
An opiate here, from mine own doctor —

MOSCA: He will not hear of drugs.

CORBACCIO: Why? I myself
Stood by while it was made; saw all the ingredients:
And know, it cannot but most gently work:
My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep.

VOLPONE [Aside]: Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it.

MOSCA: Sir,
He has no faith in physic. I often have
Heard him protest, that your physician
Should never be his heir.

CORBACCIO: Not I his heir?

MOSCA: Not your physician, sir.

CORBACCIO: O, no, no, no,
I do not mean it. How does his apoplex?
Is that strong on him still?

MOSCA: Most violent.
His speech is broken, and his eyes are set,
His face drawn longer than 'twas wont —

CORBACCIO: How! how!
Stronger then he was wont?

MOSCA: No, sir: his face
Drawn longer than 'twas wont.

CORBACCIO: O, good!

MOSCA: His mouth
Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang.

CORBACCIO: Good.

MOSCA: A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints,
And makes the colour of his flesh like lead.

CORBACCIO: 'Tis good.

MOSCA: His pulse beats slow, and dull.

CORBACCIO: Good symptoms, still.

MOSCA: And from his brain —

CORBACCIO: I conceive you; good.

MOSCA: Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum,
Forth the resolvèd corners of his eyes.

CORBACCIO: Excellent, excellent! sure I shall outlast him:
This makes me young again, a score of years.

MOSCA: I was a coming for you, sir.

CORBACCIO: Has he made his will?
What has he given me?

MOSCA: No, sir.

CORBACCIO: Nothing! ha?

MOSCA: He has not made his will, sir.

CORBACCIO: But what did Voltore, the Lawyer, here?

MOSCA: He smelt a carcass, sir, when he but heard
My master was about his testament;
As I did urge him to it for your good —

CORBACCIO: He came unto him, did he? I thought so.

MOSCA: Yes, and presented him this piece of plate.

CORBACCIO: To be his heir?

MOSCA: I do not know, sir.

CORBACCIO: True: I know it too.

MOSCA [Aside]: By your own scale, sir.

CORBACCIO: Well,
I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look,
Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequeens,
Will quite weigh down his plate.

MOSCA: All, sir; 'tis your right, your own; no man
Can claim a part: 'tis yours, without a rival,
Decreed by destiny.

CORBACCIO: How, how, good Mosca?

MOSCA: I'll tell you sir. This fit he shall recover.

CORBACCIO: I do conceive you.

MOSCA: And, on first advantage
Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him
Unto the making of his testament:
And show him this. [He points to the money]

CORBACCIO: Good, good.

MOSCA: 'Tis better yet, If you will hear, sir.
Now, would I counsel you, make home with speed;
There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe
My master your sole heir.

CORBACCIO: And disinherit my son!

MOSCA: O, sir, the better: for that colour
Shall make it much more taking.

CORBACCIO: O, but colour?

MOSCA: This will sir, you shall send it unto me,
where, without thought,
Or least regard, unto your proper issue,
A son so brave, and highly meriting,
The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you
Upon my master, and made him your heir:
He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead,
But out of conscience, and mere gratitude —

CORBACCIO: He must pronounce me his?

MOSCA: 'Tis true.

CORBACCIO: This plot
Did I think on before. Mine own project.

MOSCA: Which, when he hath done, sir.

CORBACCIO: Publish'd me his heir?

MOSCA: And you so certain to survive him —

CORBACCIO: Ay.

MOSCA: Being so lusty a man —

CORBACCIO: 'Tis true.
MOSCA: Yes, sir —

CORBACCIO: I thought on that too. See, how he should be
The very organ to express my thoughts!

MOSCA: You have not only done yourself a good —

CORBACCIO: But multiplied it on my son.

MOSCA: 'Tis right, sir. You are he,
For whom I labour here.

CORBACCIO: Ay, do, do, do:
I'll straight about it. [Begins to go]

MOSCA [Aside]: Rook go with you, raven!

CORBACCIO: I know thee honest.

MOSCA [Aside]: You do lie, sir!

CORBACCIO: And —

MOSCA: Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir.

CORBACCIO: I do not doubt, to be a father to thee.

MOSCA: Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing.

CORBACCIO: I may have my youth restored to me, why not?

MOSCA: Your worship is a precious ass!

CORBACCIO: What say'st thou?

MOSCA: I do desire your worship to make haste, sir.

CORBACCIO: 'Tis done, 'tis done, I go. [Exit]

VOLPONE [Leaping up]: O, I shall burst!
Let out my sides, let out my sides —

MOSCA: Contain your flux of laughter, sir: you know this hope
Is such a bait, it covers any hook.

VOLPONE: O, but thy working, and thy placing it!
I cannot hold; good rascal, let me kiss thee:
I never knew thee in so rare a humour.

MOSCA: Alas sir, I but do as I am taught;
Follow your grave instructions; give them words;
Pour oil into their ears, and send them hence.

VOLPONE: 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punishment
Is avarice to itself!