Volpone/Act III Scene VI
SCENE VI.
Volpone's Chamber.—Volpone on his couch. Mosca sitting by him.
Enter Corvino forcing in Celia.
Corv. Nay, now, there is no starting back, and therefore,
Resolve upon it: I have so decreed.
It must be done. Nor would I move't afore,
Because I would avoid all shifts and tricks,
That might deny me.
Cel. Sir, let me beseech you,
Affect not these strange trials; if you doubt
My chastity, why, lock me up for ever;
Make me the heir of darkness. Let me live,
Where I may please your fears, if not your trust.
Corv. Believe it, I have no such humour, I.
All that I speak I mean; yet I'm not mad;
Nor horn-mad, see you? Go to, shew yourself
Obedient, and a wife.
Cel. O heaven!
Corv. I say it,
Do so.
Cel. Was this the train?
Corv. I've told you reasons;
What the physicians have set down; how much
It may concern me; what my engagements are;
My means; and the necessity of those means,
That had read Aretine, conn'd all his prints,
Knew every quirk within lust's labyrinth,
And were profest 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.
Mos. Freely, unask'd, or unintreated——
Corv. Well.
Mos. As the true fervent instance of his love,
His own most fair and proper wife; the beauty,
Only of price in Venice——
Corv. 'Tis well urged.
Mos. To be your comfortress, and to preserve you.
Volp. Alas, I am past, already! Pray you, thank him
For his good care and promptness; but for that,
'Tis a vain labour e'en to fight 'gainst heaven;
Applying fire to stone—uh, uh, uh, uh! [coughing.]
Making a dead leaf grow again. I take
His wishes gently, though; and may you tell him,
What I have done for him: marry, my state is hopeless.
Will him to pray for me; and to use his fortune
With reverence, when he comes to't.
Mos. Do you hear, sir?
Go to him with your wife.
Corv. Heart of my father!
Wilt thou persist thus? come, I pray thee, come.
Thou seest 'tis nothing, Celia. By this hand,
I shall grow violent. Come, do't, I say.
Cel. Sir, kill me, rather: I will take down poison,
Eat burning coals, do any thing.——
Corv. Be damn'd!
Heart, I will drag thee hence, home, by the hair;
Cry thee a strumpet through the streets; rip up
Thy mouth unto thine ears; and slit thy nose,
Like a raw rochet![2]—Do not tempt me; come,
Yield, I am loth—Death! I will buy some slave
Whom I will kill, and bind thee to him, alive;
And at my window hang you forth, devising
Some monstrous crime, which I, in capital letters,
Will eat into thy flesh with aquafortis,
And burning corsives, on this stubborn breast.
Now, by the blood thou hast incensed, I'll do it!
Cel. Sir, what you please, you may, I am your martyr.
Corv. Be not thus obstinate, I have not deserved it:
Think who it is intreats you. 'Prithee, sweet;—
Good faith, thou shalt have jewels, gowns, attires,
What thou wilt think, and ask. Do but go kiss him.
Or touch him, but. For my sake.—At my suit.—
This once.—No! not! I shall remember this.
Will you disgrace me thus? Do you thirst my undoing?
Mos. Nay, gentle lady, be advised.
Corv. No, no.
She has watch'd her time. Ods precious, this is scurvy,
'Tis very scurvy; and you are—
Mos. Nay, good sir.
Corv. An arrant locust, by heaven, a locust!
Whore, crocodile, that hast thy tears prepared,
Expecting, how thou'lt bid them flow[3]——
Mos. Nay, 'pray you, sir!
She will consider.
Cel. Would my life would serve
To satisfy—
Corv. S'death! if she would but speak to him,
And save my reputation, it were somewhat;
But spightfully to affect my utter ruin!
Mos. Ay, now you have put your fortune in her hands.
Why i'faith, it is her modesty, I must quit her.
If you were absent, she would be more coming;
I know it: and dare undertake for her.
What woman can before her husband? 'pray you,
Let us depart, and leave her here.
Corv. Sweet Celia,
Thou may'st redeem all, yet; I'll say no more:
If not, esteem yourself as lost. Nay, stay there.
[Shuts the door, and exit with Mosca.
Cel. O God, and his good angels! whither, whither,
Is shame fled human breasts? that with such ease,
Men dare put off your honours, and their own?
Is that, which ever was a cause of life,
Now placed beneath the basest circumstance,
And modesty an exile made, for money?
Volp. Ay, in Corvino, and such earth-fed minds,
[Leaping from his couch.
That never tasted the true heaven of love.
Assure thee, Celia, he that would sell thee,
Only for hope of gain, and that uncertain,
He would have sold his part of Paradise
For ready money, had he met a cope-man.[4]
Why are thou mazed to see me thus revived?
Rather applaud thy beauty's miracle;
'Tis thy great work: that hath, not now alone,
But sundry times raised me, in several shapes,
And, but this morning, like a mountebank,
To see thee at thy window: ay, before
I would have left my practice, for thy love,
In varying figures, I would have contended
With the blue Proteus, or the horned flood.
Now art thou welcome.
Cel. Sir!
Volp. Nay, fly me not.
Nor let thy false imagination
That I was bed-rid, make thee think I am so:
Thou shalt not find it. I am, now, as fresh,
As hot, as high, and in as jovial plight,
As when, in that so celebrated scene,
At recitation of our comedy,
For entertainment of the great Valois,[5]
I acted young Antinous; and attracted
The eyes and ears of all the ladies present,
To admire each graceful gesture, note, and footing. [Sings.
Thou hast, in place of a base husband, found
A worthy lover: use thy fortune well;
With secrecy and pleasure. See, behold,
What thou art queen of; not in expectation,
As I feed others: but possess'd and crown'd.
See, here, a rope of pearl; and each, more orient
Than that the brave Ægyptian queen caroused:
Dissolve and drink them. See, a carbuncle,
May put out both the eyes of our St. Mark;
A diamond, would have bought Lollia Paulina,
When she came in like star-light, hid with jewels,
That were the spoils of provinces;[8] take these,
And wear, and lose them: yet remains an earring
To purchase them again, and this whole state.
A gem but worth a private patrimony,
Is nothing: we will eat such at a meal.
The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingales,
The brains of peacocks, and of estriches,
Shall be our food:[9] and, could we get the phœnix,
Though nature lost her kind, she were our dish.
Cel. Good sir, these things might move a mind affected
With such delights; but I, whose innocence
Is all I can think wealthy, or worth th'enjoying,
And which, once lost, I have nought to lose beyond it,
Cannot be taken with these sensual baits:
If you have conscience——
Volp. 'Tis the beggar's virtue;
If thou hast wisdom, hear me, Celia.
Thy baths shall be the juice of July-flowers,
Spirit of roses, and of violets,
The milk of unicorns, and panthers' breath[10]
Gather'd in bags, and mixt with Cretan wines.
Our drink shall be prepared gold and amber;
Which we will take, until my roof whirl round
With the vertigo: and my dwarf shall dance,
My eunuch sing, my fool make up the antic,
Whilst we, in changed shapes, act Ovid's tales,
Thou, like Europa now, and I like Jove,
Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine:
So, of the rest, till we have quite run through,
And wearied all the fables of the gods.
Then will I have thee in more modern forms,
Attired like some sprightly dame of France,
Brave Tuscan lady, or proud Spanish beauty;
Sometimes, unto the Persian sophy's wife;
Or the grand signior's mistress; and, for change,
To one of our most artful courtezans,
Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian;
And I will meet thee in as many shapes:
Where we may so transfuse our wandering souls
Out at our lips, and score up sums of pleasures, [Sings.
Cel. If you have ears that will be pierced—or eyes
That can be open'd—a heart that may be touch'd—
Or any part that yet sounds man about you—
If you have touch of holy saints—or heaven—
Do me the grace to let me 'scape—if not,
Be bountiful and kill me. You do know,
I am a creature, hither ill betray'd,
By one, whose shame I would forget it were:
If you will deign me neither of these graces,
Yet feed your wrath, sir, rather than your lust,
(It is a vice comes nearer manliness,)
And punish that unhappy crime of nature,
Which you miscall my beauty: flay my face,
Or poison it with ointments, for seducing
Your blood to this rebellion. Rub these hands,
With what may cause an eating leprosy,
E'en to my bones and marrow: any thing,
That may disfavour me, save in my honour—
And I will kneel to you, pray for you, pay down
A thousand hourly vows, sir, for your health;
Report, and think you virtuous——
Volp. Think me cold,
Frozen and impotent, and so report me?
That I had Nestor's hernia, thou wouldst think.
I do degenerate, and abuse my nation,
To play with opportunity thus long;
I should have done the act, and then have parley'd.
Yield, or I'll force thee.[Seizes her.
Cel. O! just God!
Volp. In vain——
Bon. [rushing in.] Forbear, four ravisher! libidinous swine!
Free the forced lady, or thou diest, impostor.
But that I'm loth to snatch thy punishment
Out of the hand of justice, thou shouldst, yet,
Be made the timely sacrifice of vengeance,
Before this altar, and this dross, thy idol.——
Lady, let's quit the place, it is the den
Of villainy; fear nought, you have a guard:
And he, ere long, shall meet his just reward.
[Exeunt Bon. and Cel.
Volp. Fall on me, roof, and bury me in ruin!
Become my grave, that wert my shelter! O!
I am unmask'd, unspirited, undone,
Betray'd to beggary, to infamy——
Enter Mosca, wounded, and bleeding.
Mos. Where shall I run, most wretched shame of men,
To beat out my unlucky brains?
Volp. Here, here.
What! dost thou bleed?
Mos. O that his well-driv'n sword
Had been so courteous to have cleft me down
Unto the navel, ere I lived to see
My life, my hopes, my spirits, my patron, all
Thus desperately engaged, by my error!
Volp. Woe on thy fortune!
Mos. And my follies, sir.
Volp. Thou hast made me miserable.
Mos. And myself, sir.
Who would have thought he would have hearken'd so?
Volp. What shall we do?
Mos. I know not; if my heart
Could expiate the mischance, I'd pluck it out.
Will you be pleased to hang me, or cut my throat?
And I'll requite you, sir. Let's die like Romans,[12]
Since we have lived like Grecians.
[Knocking within.
Volp. Hark! who's there?
I hear some footing; officers, the saffi,[13]
Come to apprehend us! I do feel the brand
Hissing already at my forehead; now,
Mine ears are boring.
Mos. To your couch, sir, you
Make that place good, however. [Volpone lies down, as before.]—Guilty men
Suspect what they deserve still.[14]
Enter Corbaccio.
Signior Corbaccio!
Corb. Why, how now, Mosca?
Mos. O, undone, amazed, sir.
Your son, I know not by what accident,
Acquainted with your purpose to my patron,
Touching your Will, and making him your heir,
Enter'd our house with violence, his sword drawn,
Sought for you, call'd you wretch, unnatural,
Vow'd he would kill you.
Corb. Me!
Mos. Yes, and my patron.
Corb. This act shall disinherit him indeed:
Here is the Will.
Mos. 'Tis well, sir.
Corb. Right and well:
Be you as careful now for me.
Enter Voltore behind.
Mos. My life, sir,
Is not more tender'd; I am only yours.
Corb. How does he? will he die shortly, think'st thou?
Mos. I fear
He'll outlast May.
Corb. To-day?
Mos. No, last our May, sir.
Corb. Could'st thou not give him a dram?
Mos. O, by no means, sir.
Corb. Nay, I'll not bid you.
Volt. [coming forward.] This is a knave, I see.
Mos. [seeing Volt.] How! signior Voltore! did he hear me? [Aside.
Volt. Parasite!
Mos. Who's that?—O, sir, most timely welcome—
Volt. Scarce,
To the discovery of your tricks, I fear.
You are his, only? and mine also, are you not?
Mos. Who? I, sir!
Volt. You, sir. What device is this
About a Will?
Mos. A plot for you, sir.
Volt. Come,
Put not your foists[15] upon me; I shall scent them.
Mos. Did you not hear it?
Volt. Yes, I hear Corbaccio
Hath made your patron there his heir.
Mos. 'Tis true,
By my device, drawn to it by my plot,
With hope——
Volt. Your patron should reciprocate?
And you have promised?
Mos. For your good, I did, sir.
Nay, more, I told his son, brought, hid him here,
Where he might hear his father pass the deed;
Being persuaded to it by this thought, sir,
That the unnaturalness, first, of the act,
And then his father's oft disclaiming in him,[16]
(Which I did mean t' help on,) would sure enrage him
To do some violence upon his parent,
On which the law should take sufficient hold,
And you be stated in a double hope:
Truth be my comfort, and my conscience,
My only aim was to dig you a fortune
Out of these two old rotten sepulchres—[17]
Volt. I cry thee mercy, Mosca.
Mos. Worth your patience,
And your great merit, sir. And see the change!
Volt. Why, what success?
Mos. Most hapless! you must help, sir.
Whilst we expected the old raven,[18] in comes
Corvino's wife, sent hither by her husband—
Volt. What, with a present?
Mos. No, sir, on visitation;
(I'll tell you how anon;) and staying long,
The youth he grows impatient, rushes forth,
Seizeth the lady, wounds me, makes her swear
(Or he would murder her, that was his vow)
To affirm my patron to have done her rape:
Which how unlike it is, you see! and hence,
With that pretext he's gone, to accuse his father,
Defame my patron, defeat you——
Volt. Where is her husband?
Let him be sent for straight.
Mos. Sir, I'll go fetch him.
Volt. Bring him to the Scrutineo.
Mos. Sir, I will.
Volt. This must be stopt.
Mos. O you do nobly, sir.
Alas, 'twas labour'd all, sir, for your good;
Nor was there want of counsel in the plot:
But fortune can, at anytime, o'erthrow
The projects of a hundred learned clerks, sir.
Corb. [listening.] What's that?
Volt. Will't please you, sir, to go along? [Exit Corbaccio followed by Voltore.
Mos. Patron, go in, and pray for our success.
Volp. [rising from his couch.] Need makes devotion: heaven your labour bless! [Exeunt.
- ↑ Honour? tut, a breath, &c.] This is excellent after what we had from him, p. 224. The genius and skill with which Jonson has conceived and conducted this extraordinary vicious character, are altogether surprising. The conclusion of this speech is from Juvenal:
————hujusPallida labra cibum capiunt digitis alienis:Ipse ad conspectum cœnœ diducere rictumSuctus, hiat tantum &c.Sat. x.
- ↑ Like a raw rochet!] A rochet or rouget, so named from its red colour, is a fish of the gurnet kind, but not so large. Whal.
- ↑ ————that hast thy tears prepared,
Expecting, how thou'lt bid them flow.]
————Plorat
Uberibus semper lacrynis, semperque paratis
In statione suâ, atque expectantibus illam,
Quo jubeat manare modo.Juv. Sat. vi. - ↑ "————Had he met a cope-man] "For this we now say chapman; which is as much as to say, a merchant, or cope-man." Verstegan on the word ceapman. Whal.
- ↑ For entertainment of the great Valois,] He probably alludes to the magnificent spectacles which were exhibited for the amusement of Henry III., in 1574, when he passed through Venice, in his return from Poland, to take possession of the crown of France, vacant by the death of his brother Charles, of infamous memory.
- ↑ Come, my Celia, &c.] This song, as Upton says, is imitated from Catullus. Whal.
As the original is not long, it is subjoined, that the extent of Jonson's obligation to it may be seen at once:
Vivamus, mea Lesbia, alque amemus,Rumoresque senum severiorumOmnes unius œstimemus assis.Soles occidere et redire possunt;Nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux,Nox est perpetua una dormiunda.Da me basia mille, deinde centum,Dein mille altera, dein secunda centum;Dein usque altera mille, deine centum.Dein, cum millia multa fecerimus,Conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,Aut ne quis malus invidere possit,Cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.
Here is nothing similar to the concluding lines of this beautiful little poem, which seem to bear an ingenious reference to the well-known Institutes of Sparta respecting theft. The praise, however, which is bestowed on Jonson's genius, can scarcely be extended to his judgment, in this instance. The song is evidently introduced somewhat too much in the style of that in the Rovers, where the conspirators join in a chorus "to conceal their purpose." This impropriety has not escaped the critics. "Celia," says one of them, "is surprised, and would fain fly; but being seized and forced to stay, she quietly listens to an entertainment of music. Methinks she should have rent, torn, and cried out for help, as she does afterwards:—but that would have spoiled the song." From the words in italics, it might be supposed that Volpone had called in a band of musicians to amuse Celia, instead of endeavouring to captivate her by a few of the "graceful notes" which had "attracted the ears of the ladies" at the Doge's palace.
Nor is it clear that she "ought to have rent, torn, &c." She had hitherto sustained no actual violence, nor seemed to be in immediate danger of any. Her husband, for aught she knew, was in the plot against her; and having delivered her up to prostitution, was not likely to be recalled by her complaints. Afterwards, indeed, when she is seized by Volpone, her innate horror of impurity prevails over every other consideration, and her cries are just and natural. I have said thus much, to moderate, if possible, the indiscriminate levity with which the faults of this great man are censured; and not to defend the introduction of the song itself, which is confessedly ill-timed.
- ↑ Some serene blast me,] "I found" (says Upton) "this passage thus printed, in a modern edition, 'Some siren blast me'; and the editor hugged himself, I dare say, with the thought of this emendation: but the poet alludes to a disease in the eye called by physicians gutta serena," p. 44. O Nemesis, how watchful art thou!—and Upton, "I dare say, hugged himself;" although his explanation is just as little to the purpose as the emendation of his predecessor. A serene, as Whalley discovered in Cotgrave, while his work in the press, (for the word is pure French,) is "a mildew, or that harmful dew of moist summer evenings, which occasions blights." Jonson uses it again in his Epigrams;
"——Wherever death doth please t' appear,"Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sickness, all are there."Epig. 32.
And it is used also by Daniel, in the same sense:
"The fogs and the serene offend us more,"Or we may think so, than they did before."Queen's Arcadia, A. I. S. I. Whal. - ↑ A diamond would have bought Lollia Paulina,
When she came in, like star-light, hid with jewels,
That were the spoils of provinces:] Lilliam Paulinam, quœ fuit Caii principis matrona, ne serio quidem, aut solemni cœrimoniarum aliquo apparatu, sed mediocrium etiam sponsalium cœnâ, vidi smaragdis margaritisque opertam, alterno textu fulgentibus, toto capite, crinibus, spira, auribus, collo, monilibus, digitisque.—Nec dona prodigi principis fuerant, sed avitœ opes, provinciarum scilicet spoliis partæ. Plin. L. 9. 3. 58.
This extract Whalley found in Upton, who refers to Tacitus and Suetonius for further proofs of the extravagance of this lady; which, indeed, is frequently noticed by our old dramatists. Thus Machin:
——"And for thee, not
"Lollia Paulina, nor those blazing stars
"Which make the world the apes of Italy,
Shall match thyself in sun-bright splendancy."
Dumb Knight.
Milton applies this epithet (sun-bright) to the chariot of Satan, and is complimented for it by one of his editors, as having "beautifully improved" the light-bright of old Joshua Sylvester! Milton has a thousand claims to our admiration; but that of introducing beautiful epithets into the language, is not one of them. He found them formed to his hands.
- ↑ The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingales,
The brains of peacocks, and of estriches
Shall be our food:] This is a strain of luxury taken from the emperor Heliogabalus. Comedit, says Ælius Lampridius, linguas pavonum et lusciniarum: and he had the brains of 500 ostriches to furnish out a single dish. Whal. - ↑ The milk of unicorns, and panthers' breath] I know not for what particular quality the milk of unicorns is celebrated, the animal being confined to the terra incognita of Africa, where few can go to suck it. Pliny, indeed, observes that "the milk of camels is extremely sweet;" and this may have been in Jonson's mind:—but his knowledge was so universal, that it is very hazardous, at least in one so little read as myself, to decide upon his authorities. The sweetness of the panther's breath, or, rather, body, is sufficiently notorious. It is remarked by Pliny, Lib. xxi c. 7. "Animalium nullum odoratum nisi de pantheris quod dictum est, credimus." Ælian also mentions it; but the passage which our author had in view was probably the following: Εκ τα ςοματος αυτα ευωδια τις εξεισιν αρωματικη δί γς τα αλλα ζωα ζελγομενα τα εγγυς και τα πορρωζεν εγγιζασιν αυτω και επονται. Eustat. Comment. in Hexaëmeron, 4to. p. 38. Frequent allusions to this circumstance occur in our old poets. Thus Shirley:
————"Your Grace is bound
"To hunt this spotted panther to his ruin,
"Whose breath is only sweet to poison virtue."
The Royal Master.
And Glapthorne,
————"the panther so,
"Breathes odours precious as the fragrant gums
"Of eastern groves; but the delicious scent,
"Not taken in at distance, chokes the sense
"With the took muskie savour."The Hollander.
And Randolph, in some pretty stanzas to a "very deformed gentlewoman, but of a voice incomparable sweet:"
"Say, monster strange, what may'st thou be?
"Whence shall I fetch thy pedigree?——
"What but a panther could beget
"A beast so foul, a breath so sweet?" - ↑ That the curious, &c.] These lines form an elegant imitation of the concluding hendecasyllables from Catullus, (p. 254,) and are reprinted, together with the rest, in The Forest, a collection of the author's smaller poems. It would scarcely be just to Jonson's merits to pass over this admirable scene without remarking on the boundless fertility of his mind. Temptations are heaped upon temptations with a rapidity which almost outstrips the imagination; and a richness, variety, and beauty, which render mean and base all the allurements that preceding poets have invented and combined, to facilitate the overthrow of purity and virtue.
- ↑ ——Let's die like Romans,] i. e. by our own hands, fearlessly. Since we have lived like Grecians; like debauchees: pergrœcari, as Upton observes, from Plautus, is "to spend the hours in mirth, wine, and banquets." All this is very well; but when he adds, "Hence the proverb, as merry as a Greek;" and "hence too Sebastian in Twelfth-Night, calls the clown foolish Greek, for his unseasonable mirth;" he talks as idly, as the commentators on Shakspeare usually do, on this subject. How often will it be necessary to observe, that our old dramatists affixed no appropriate idea to these patronymic appellations; which were used merely as augmentatives, and must be understood from the context? To be as mad or as merry, as foolish or as wise, as Greeks, Trojans, Lacedemonians, &c. (for all these terms were indiscriminately used) was simply to be very mad, merry, foolish, &c., and nothing can be more absurd than the attempts to fasten upon such expressions a constant and determinate sense. One happy specimen of this is before me. In the Lover's Melancholy, Cuculus, a foolish courtier, says—"I come to speak with a young lady, the old Trojan's daughter of this house." To explain this obscure speech, the editor musters up all his wisdom. "The popularity," he says, "of the achievements of the Greeks and Trojans led to an application of their names not very honourable to them," (Mr. Weber wanted Partridge at his elbow,) "the former being used for cheats, and the latter for thieves"—So that "old Trojan" in the text, means old thief; and being applied to the general of the Famagostan armies, and the most respectable character in the drama, does as much credit to the judgment of Ford, as to the sagacity of Mr. Weber. It would be a pity to withhold the grave conclusion of this note from the reader: "It is difficult to conceive a great degradation, if we except the common misapplication of the venerable names of Hector, Cæsar, Pompey, &c. to dogs."—venerable!—but let it go: it is some praise to be uniform even in folly.
- ↑ ————The saffi,] "These," says Whalley, "as we learn from Coryat, are officers subordinate to the Podestaes and Prætors; of whom some have authority only by land, and some by sea. Their habit is a red camlet gown with long sleeves." It is impossible that Coryat could say this; for the saffi are mere bailiffs' followers, and subordinate to the commandadori. Whalley, probably mistook savi for saffi. The savi, indeed, wear a red gown, as doctors of law; but they rank above the Podestaes and Prætors, not below them, as he says. In short, his whole note is a blunder.
- ↑ Guilty men, &c.] The occasional qualms of these two knaves, who pass with the rapidity of Falstaff "from praying to purse-taking," are marked throughout this scene with admirable truth and humour.
- ↑ Put not, &c.] Foists are juggling tricks, frauds; but the line contains also a punning allusion to a meaning, which our delicate ancestors affixed to the word, when they gave the name of foisting-hounds to the ladies favourites, the small chamber-dogs of those days.
- ↑ And then his father's oft disclaiming in him;] i. e. disclaiming him. Our poet's cotemporaries use the same diction: so Fletcher,
"——Thou disclaim'st in me;
"Tell me thy name."Philaster. Act. II.
Whal.
And Shakspeare
"Cowardly rascal! Nature disclaims in thee."
Lear. A. II. S. 2.
The expression is very common in our old writers: it seems, however, to have been wearing out about this time, since it is found far less frequently in the second than in the first impressions of these plays. Two instances of disclaim in occur in the quarto edition of Every Man in his Humour; both of which, in the folio, are simplified into disclaim.
- ↑ My only aim was to dig you a fortune
Out of these two old rotten sepulchres—] The expression is as natural, as the image is just: treasure has been often found in ancient monuments and sepulchres. Whal. - ↑ Whilst we expected the old raven,] i. e. Corbaccio. Whal.