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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?
What has he giv'n me?

Mof No, Sir.
Corb. Nothing! Ha?
Mos. He has not made his Will, Sir.

Corb. Oh, oh, oh!
What then did Voltore, the Lawyer, here?
Mos. He smelt a Carcals, Sir, when he but

heard
My Master 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?
Mos. I do not know, Sir.

Corb. True,
I know it too.

Mos. By your own scale, Sir.

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

P 3

Moj.

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, de, do.

Mos Most 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.

Mof Why, Sir, this
Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it.
Corb, "Ţis true; therefore forbear, I'll take my

venture;
Give met again.

Mof. : At no handi pardon me.
You shall not do yourself that wrong, Sir. I
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 Mofea ?
Mef. I'll tell you, Sir. This fit he shall recaver,
Corb. I do conceive you.

Moj. And, on first advantage
Of his gain'd Sense, will I re-importune him
Unto the making of his Testament,
And shew him this.
Corb. Good, good,

Mof

1

Mf. 'Tis better yet,
If you will hear, Sir.

Corb. Yes, with all any heart
Alof. Now, would I counsel' you, make homo

with speed;
There, frame a Will; whereto you shall inscribe
My Master your sole Heir.

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,
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 last, produce your Will, where, without thought
Or least regard unto your proper Issue,
A Son lo brave and highly meriting,
The Stream of your diverted Love has thrown you
Upon my Master, and made him yqur Heir:
He cannot be so stupid or stone-dead,
But out of Conscience and ineer Gratitude ...

Corb. He must pronounce me his?
Mof. 'Tis true

Corb. This Plot
Did I think on before,

Mos. I do believe it.
Corb. Do you not believe it?
Mos. Yes, Sir.
Corb. Mine own project.
Mos. Which when he has done, Sir--
Corb. Published me his Heir ?
Mofi And you so certain, to survive him--

Corb.

P4

Corb. Ay.
Mos. Being so lusty a Mana.
Corb. Tis true.
Mos. Yes, Sir

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 --
Corb. But multiplied it on my Son.
Mof 'Tis right, Sir.
Corb. Still, mny invention.

Mof. "Lass, Sir, Heaven knows,
It has been all my study, all my care,
(I e'en grow grey withal) how to work things-

Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca.

Mof. You are he, For whom I labour here.

Corb. Ay, do, do, do;
I'll straight about it,

Mof. Rook go with you, Raven.
Corb. I know thee honest.
Mos. You do lie, Sir,
Corb. And
Mof. Your Knowledge is no better than your

ears,

Sir.
Corb. I do not doubt to be, a Father to thee.
Mof. Nor I to gull my Brother of his Blessing.
Corb. I may ha'my Youth restor'd to me, why

not?
Mof Your Worship is a precious Afs
Corb. What sayst thon?
Mo). I do desire Your Worship, to make haste,

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

Volp. 0, I shall burst;
Let out my sides, let out my sides

Mos. Contain
Your Flux of Laughter, Sir: you know, this hope
Is such a Bait, it covers any

Hook.
Volp. O, but thy wořking, and thy placing it!
I cannot hold; good Rascal, let me kiss thee;
I never knew thee in so rare a Humour,

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!

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