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.