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Mof. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual
Rhume, forth the resolved corners of his eyes.
Corb. Is't possible? Yet I am better, ha! How does he with the swimming of his head?
Mof. 0, Sir, 'tis past the Scotomy; he now Has lost his Feeling, and has left to (nort; You hardly can perceive him that he breaths. Corb. Excellent, excellent ! sure, I shall out
last him. This makes me young again a score of years.
Mos. I was a coming for you, Sir.
Corb, Has he made his Will?
Mof No, Sir.
Corb. Oh, oh, oh!
Corb. He came unto him? did he? I thought so.
Mos. By your own scale, Sir.
Mof Yea, marry, Sir.
Corb. Ay, do, de, do.
Mos Most blessed Cordial!
Corb. Yes, do, do, do.
Mof Why, Sir, this
Mof. : At no handi pardon me.
Corb. How, how, good Mofea ?
Moj. And, on first advantage
Mf. 'Tis better yet,
Corb. Yes, with all any heart
Corb. And disinherit, My Son ?
Moj. O Sir, the better; for that colour Shall make it much more taking.
Corb. O, but colour ?
Mos This Will, Sir, you shall send it unto me,
Corb. He must pronounce me his?
Corb. This Plot
Mos. I do believe it.
Corb. I thought on that too. Se how, he should be The very Organ to express iny thoughts!
Mof. You have not only done yourself a good --
Mof. "Lass, Sir, Heaven knows,
Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca.
Mof. You are he, For whom I labour here.
Corb. Ay, do, do, do;
Mof. Rook go with you, Raven.
Volp. 0, I shall burst;
Mos. Alas, Sir, I but do, as I am taught; Follow your grave Instructions; give'en, words; Pour Oil into their Ears, and send them hence, Volp, 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare Punish
ment Is Avarice to itself!
Mos. I, with your help, Sir,
Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, So many fears attending on Old Age, Yea, Death so often callid 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 Instruments 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, Matters 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; And all turns Air!