[DRINKS AGAIN.]
So, so, so, so!
This heat is life; 'tis blood by this time:--Mosca!
[ENTER MOSCA.]
MOS: How now, sir? does the day look clear again?
Are we recover'd, and wrought out of error,
Into our way, to see our path before us?
Is our trade free once more?
VOLP: Exquisite Mosca!
MOS: Was it not carried learnedly?
VOLP: And stoutly:
Good wits are greatest in extremities.
MOS: It were a folly beyond thought, to trust
Any grand act unto a cowardly spirit:
You are not taken with it enough, methinks?
VOLP: O, more than if I had enjoy'd the wench:
The pleasure of all woman-kind's not like it.
MOS: Why now you speak, sir. We must here be fix'd;
Here we must rest; this is our master-peice;
We cannot think to go beyond this.
VOLP: True.
Thou hast play'd thy prize, my precious Mosca.
MOS: Nay, sir,
To gull the court--
VOLP: And quite divert the torrent
Upon the innocent.
MOS: Yes, and to make
So rare a music out of discords--
VOLP: Right.
That yet to me's the strangest, how thou hast borne it!
That these, being so divided 'mongst themselves,
Should not scent somewhat, or in me or thee,
Or doubt their own side.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182