CORB: O, no, no, no; by no means.
MOS: Why, sir, this
Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it.
CORB: 'Tis true, therefore forbear; I'll take my venture:
Give me it again.
MOS: At no hand; pardon me:
You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I
Will so advise you, you shall have it all.
CORB: How?
MOS: All, sir; 'tis your right, your own; no man
Can claim a part: 'tis yours, without a rival,
Decreed by destiny.
CORB: How, how, good Mosca?
MOS: I'll tell you sir. This fit he shall recover.
CORB: I do conceive you.
MOS: And, on first advantage
Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him
Unto the making of his testament:
And shew him this.
[POINTING TO THE MONEY.]
CORB: Good, good.
MOS: 'Tis better yet,
If you will hear, sir.
CORB: Yes, with all my heart.
MOS: Now, would I counsel you, make home with speed;
There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe
My master your sole heir.
CORB: And disinherit
My son!
MOS: 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.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94