CORB: Has he made his will?
What has he given me?
MOS: No, sir.
CORB: Nothing! ha?
MOS: He has not made his will, sir.
CORB: Oh, oh, oh!
But what did Voltore, the Lawyer, here?
MOS: He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard
My master was about his testament;
As I did urge him to it for your good--
CORB: He came unto him, did he? I thought so.
MOS: 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 [ASIDE.]: By your own scale, sir.
CORB: Well,
I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look,
Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines,
Will quite weigh down his plate.
MOS [TAKING THE BAG.]: Yea, marry, sir.
This is true physic, this your sacred medicine,
No talk of opiates, to this great elixir!
CORB: 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.
MOS: It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl.
CORB: Ay, do, do, do.
MOS: Most blessed cordial!
This will recover him.
CORB: Yes, do, do, do.
MOS: I think it were not best, sir.
CORB: What?
MOS: To recover him.
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