Away!
[EXIT CELIA.]
[ENTER SERVANT.]
Who's there?
SERV: 'Tis signior Mosca, sir.
CORV: Let him come in.
[EXIT SERVANT.]
His master's dead: There's yet
Some good to help the bad.--
[ENTER MOSCA.]
My Mosca, welcome!
I guess your news.
MOS: I fear you cannot, sir.
CORV: Is't not his death?
MOS: Rather the contrary.
CORV: Not his recovery?
MOS: Yes, sir,
CORV: I am curs'd,
I am bewitch'd, my crosses meet to vex me.
How? how? how? how?
MOS: Why, sir, with Scoto's oil;
Corbaccio and Voltore brought of it,
Whilst I was busy in an inner room--
CORV: Death! that damn'd mountebank; but for the law
Now, I could kill the rascal: it cannot be,
His oil should have that virtue. Have not I
Known him a common rogue, come fidling in
To the osteria, with a tumbling whore,
And, when he has done all his forced tricks, been glad
Of a poor spoonful of dead wine, with flies in't?
It cannot be. All his ingredients
Are a sheep's gall, a roasted bitch's marrow,
Some few sod earwigs pounded caterpillars,
A little capon's grease, and fasting spittle:
I know them to a dram.
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