Mof. Flows a cold fweat, with a continual

Rhume,

Forth the refolved corners of his eyes.

Corb. Is't poffible? Yet I am better, ha! How does he with the fwimming of his head? Mof. O, Sir, 'tis past the Scotomy; he now Has loft his Feeling, and has left to fnort;

You hardly can perceive him that he breaths.

Corb. Excellent, excellent! fure, I fhall out

laft him.

、·

This makes me young again a score of years.

Mof. I was a coming for you, Sir.

Corb.

Has he made his Will?

What has he giv'n me?

Mof. No, Sir.

Corb. Nothing! Ha?

Mof. He has not made his Will, Sir.

Corb. Oh, oh, oh!

What then did Voltore, the Lawyer, here?

Моf. He smelt a Carcals, Sir, when he but heard

My Mafter was about his Teftament;

As I did urge him to it, for your good

Corb. He came unto him? did he? I thought so.
Mof. Yes, and presented him this piece of Plate.
Corb. To be his Heir?

Mof. I do not know, Sir.

Mof. By your own scale, Sir.
Corb. Well,

I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mofca, look,
Here, I have brought a bag of bright Cecchines,
Will quite weight down his Plate.

P 3

Mol.

Mof Yea, marry, Sir.

This is true Phyfick, this your facred Medicine;
No talk of Opiates, to this great Elixir.
'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.

It shall be minister'd to him, in his Bowle?
Corb. Ay, do, do, dọ.

Mof. Moft blessed Cordial!

This will recover him.

Corb. Yes, do, do, do.

Mof. I think, it were not beft, Sir.

Corb. What?

Mof. To recover him.

Corb. Oh, no, no, no; by no means.

Mef Why, Sir, this

Will work fome strange effect, if he but feel it.

Corb. Tis true; therefore forbear, I'll take my

Give me1t again.

venture;

Mof. At no hand; pardon me.

You fhall not, do yourself that wrong, Sir. Į

Will so advise you, you fhall have it all.

Corb. How?

Mof. All, Sir; 'tis your right, your own; ne

Man

Can claim a part: 'Tis your's, without a Rival,
Decreed by Destiny.

Corb. How, how, good Mosca?

Mof. I'll tell you, Sir. This fit he shall recover,
Corb. I do conceive you.

Mof. And, on first advantage

Of his gain'd Sense, will I re-importune him

Unto the making of his Teftament,

And fhew him this.

Corb. Good, good,

Mof.

Mof. Tis better yet,

If you will hear, Six.

Corb. Yes, with all my heart.

Mof. Now, would I counfel you, make home

with speed;

There, frame a Will; whereto you shall infcribe

My Mafter your fole Heir.

Corb. And difinherit

My Son?

Moj. O Sir, the better; for that colour Shall make it much more taking.

Corb. O, but colour?

Mof This Will, Sir, you fhall fend it unto me. Now, when I come to inforce, as I will do,

Your Cures, your Watchings, and your many Prayers, Your more than many Gifts, your this day's present, And laft, produce your Will, where, without thought Or least regard unto your proper Issue,

A Son fo brave and highly meriting,

The Stream of your diverted Love has thrown you
Upon my Master, and made him your Heir:

He cannot be so stupid or stone-dead,

But out of Confcience and meer Gratitude...
Corb. He muft pronounce me his?
Mof. 'Tis true,

Corb. This Plot

Did I think on before,

Mof. I do believe it.

Corb. Do you not believe it?

Mof. Yes, Sir.

Corb. Mine own project.

Mof. Which when he has done, Sir-

Corb. Publifhed me his Heir?

Mof And you for certain, to furvive him-

1

Corb. Ay.

Mof. Being fo lufty a Man-

Corb. 'Tis true.

Mof. Yes, Sir

---

Corb. I thought on that too. Se how he fhould be The very Organ to express my thoughts!

Mof You have not only done yourself a good --
Corb. But multiplied it on my Son.
Mof 'Tis right, Sir.

Corb. Still, my invention.

Mof. 'Lafs, Sir, Heaven knows,

It has been all my ftudy, all my care,

(I e'en grow grey withal) how to work thingsCorb. I do conceive, fweet Mofca.

Corb. I do not doubt to be a Father to thee.

Mof. Nor I to gull my Brother of his Bleffing.
Corb. I may ha'my Youth reftor'd to me, why

not?

Mof. Your Worship is a precious Afs

Corb. What sayft thon?

Moj. I do defire Your Worfhip, to make hafte,

Sir.

Corb, 'Tis done, 'tis done, I go. (Exit.)

Your Flux of Laughter, Sir: you know, this hope
Is fuch a Bait, it covers any Hook.

Volp. O, but thy working, and thy placing it! I cannot hold; good Rafcal, let me kiss thee; I never knew thee in fo rare a Humour,

Mof. Alas, Sir, I but do, as I am taught; Follow your grave Instructions; give'em words; Pour Oil into their Ears, and send them hence, Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare Punish

Is Avarice to itself!

ment

Mof. I, with your help, Sir,

Volp. So many cares, fo many maladies,

So many fears attending on Old Age,

Yea, Death so often call'd on, as no wish

Can be more frequent with them; their Limbs faint,
Their Senses dull, their Seing, Hearing, Going,
All dead before them; yea, their very Teeth,
Their Inftruments of Eating, failing them:
Yet this is reckon'd Life! Nay, here was one,
Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer!
Feels not his Gout, nor Palfie, feings himself
Younger, by scores of years, Hatters his Age
With confident belying it, hopes he may
With Charms like Aefon, have his Youth restor❜d:
And with these Thoughts so battens, as if Fate
Would be as easily cheated on, as he;