CEL: Are heaven and saints then nothing?
Will they be blind or stupid?
CORV: How!
CEL: Good sir,
Be jealous still, emulate them; and think
What hate they burn with toward every sin.
CORV: I grant you: if I thought it were a sin,
I would not urge you. Should I offer this
To some young Frenchman, or hot Tuscan blood
That had read Aretine, conn'd all his prints,
Knew every quirk within lust's labyrinth,
And were professed critic in lechery;
And I would look upon him, and applaud him,
This were a sin: but here, 'tis contrary,
A pious work, mere charity for physic,
And honest polity, to assure mine own.
CEL: O heaven! canst thou suffer such a change?
VOLP: Thou art mine honour, Mosca, and my pride,
My joy, my tickling, my delight! Go bring them.
MOS [ADVANCING.]: Please you draw near, sir.
CORV: Come on, what--
You will not be rebellious? by that light--
MOS: Sir,
Signior Corvino, here, is come to see you.
VOLP: Oh!
MOS: And hearing of the consultation had,
So lately, for your health, is come to offer,
Or rather, sir, to prostitute--
CORV: Thanks, sweet Mosca.
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