# Volpone/Act III Scene I

ACT III. SCENE I.
A Street.
Enter Mosca.
Mos. I fear, I shall begin to grow in love With my dear self, and my most prosperous parts, They do so spring and burgeon; I can feel A whimsy in my blood: I know not how, Success hath made me wanton. I could skip Out of my skin, now, like a subtle snake, I am so limber. O! your parasite Is a most precious thing, dropt from above, Not bred 'mongst clods and clodpoles, here on earth. I muse, the mystery was not made a science, It is so liberally profest! almost All the wise world is little else, in nature, But parasites or sub-parasites.—And, yet, I mean not those that have your bare town-art, To know who's fit to feed them; have no house, No family, no care, and therefore mould Tales for men's ears, to bait that sense; or get Kitchen-invention, and some stale receipts To please the belly, and the groin; nor those, With their court dog-tricks, that can fawn and fleer, Make their revenue out of legs and faces,
Echo my lord, and lick away a moth: But your fine elegant rascal, that can rise, And stoop, almost together, like an arrow; Shoot through the air as nimbly as a star; Turn short as doth a swallow; and be here, And there, and here, and yonder, all at once; Present to any humour, all occasion; And change a visor, swifter than a thought! This is the creature had the art born with him; Toils not to learn it, but doth practise it Out of most excellent nature: and such sparks Are the true parasites, others but their zanis.
Enter Bonario.
Who's this? Bonario, old Corbaccio's son? The person I was bound to seek.—Fair sir, You are happily met. Bon. That cannot be by thee. Mos. Why, sir? Bon. Nay, pray thee know thy way, and leave me: I would be loth to interchange discourse With such a mate as thou art. Mos. Courteous sir, Scorn not my poverty. Bon. Not I, by heaven; But thou shalt give me leave to hate thy baseness. Mos. Baseness! Bon. Ay; answer me, is not thy sloth Sufficient argument? thy flattery? Thy means of feeding? Mos. Heaven be good to me! These imputations are too common, sir, And easily stuck on virtue when she's poor. You are unequal to me, and however Your sentence may be righteous, yet you are not, That, ere you know me, thus proceed in censure: St. Mark bear witness 'gainst you, 'tis inhuman. [Weeps. Bon. What! does he weep? the sign is soft and good: I do repent me that I was so harsh.[Aside.
Mos. 'Tis true, that, sway'd by strong necessity, I am enforced to eat my careful bread With too much obsequy; 'tis true, beside, That I am fain to spin mine own poor raiment Out of my mere observance, being not born To a free fortune: but that I have done Base offices, in rending friends asunder, Dividing families, betraying counsels, Whispering false lies, or mining men with praises, Train'd their credulity with perjuries, Corrupted chastity, or am in love With mine own tender ease, but would not rather Prove the most rugged, and laborious course, That might redeem my present estimation, Let me here perish, in all hope of goodness. Bon. This cannot be a personated passion.—[Aside. I was to blame, so to mistake thy nature; Prithee forgive me: and speak out thy business. Mos. Sir, it concerns you; and though I may seem, At first to make a main offence in manners, And in my gratitude unto my master; Yet, for the pure love, which I bear all right, And hatred of the wrong, I must reveal it. This very hour your father is in purpose To disinherit you—— Bon. How! Mos. And thrust you forth, As a mere stranger to his blood; 'tis true, sir. The work no way engageth me, but, as I claim an interest in the general state Of goodness and true virtue, which I hear To abound in you; and, for which mere respect, Without a second aim, sir, I have done it. Bon. This tale hath lost thee much of the late trust
Thou hadst with me; it is impossible: I know not how to lend it any thought, My father should be so unnatural. Mos. It is a confidence that well becomes Your piety; and form'd, no doubt, it is From your own simple innocence: which makes Your wrong more monstrous and abhorr'd. But, sir, I now will tell you more. This very minute, It is, or will be doing; and, if you Shall be but pleased to go with me, I'll bring you, I dare not say where you shall see, but where Your ear shall be a witness of the deed; Hear yourself written bastard, and profest The common issue of the earth. Bon. I am mazed! Mos. Sir, if I do it not, draw your just sword, And score your vengeance on my front and face; Mark me your villain: you have too much wrong, And I do suffer for you, sir. My heart Weeps blood in anguish—— Bon. Lead; I follow thee.[Exeunt.
* ↑ Make their revenue out of legs and faces,] i. e. out of bows, and smiles, or rather, perhaps, as Juvenal expresses it, moulding their faces to suit the humour of their patron's—alienum sumere vultum, &c.
* ↑ Echo my lord, and lick away a moth:] This, as Upton affectedly observes, is an allusion "to such officious kind of parasites, as are called in Low Dutch pluyme-strücker, qui plumas pilosque ex vestibus assentatoriè legit." All this learning is from Minshieu: Jonson, however, did not go to Holland for his flatterer, but to Attica, a country with which he was much better acquainted: Απο τα ίματια αφελειν κροκιδα και εαν τι προς το τριχωμα της κεφαλης απο πνευματος προσενεχθη αχυρον καρφελογηςαι. Theophras. περι κολακειας. Hall has the same allusion: "But some one, like a claw-backe parasite, "Pick'd mothes from his patron's cloake in sight." Sat. Lib. 6.
* ↑ Mr. Cumberland parallels this exquisite speech with that of a parasite, preserved to us in a fragment of Eupolis. The advantage, however, is on the side of Jonson. His "fine elegant rascal, "that can rise, "And stoop, almost together, like an arrow; "Shoot through the air as nimbly as a star; "Turn short as doth a swallow," &c. is much superior to the parasite of the Greek dramatist, whom our poet undoubtedly had in view, and over whom he manifestly triumphs in the conclusion of his speech. Lucian's parasite, who is here brought forward by Upton, is, it must be confessed, a sprightly, impudent, pleasant fellow; from him, however, Jonson has taken nothing, but the idea that "the mystery should be made a science," &c. Indeed the two characters are perfectly distinct.
* ↑ You are unequal to me, &c.] i. e. unjust; you do not judge equitably. The sentiment itself is from the Medea of Seneca: Qui statuit aliquid, parte inauditâ alterâ, Æquum licet statuerit, haud œquus fuit.Whal.