Up to the arms in honey, that your chin
Is born up stiff, with fatness of the flood,
Think on your vassal; but remember me:
I have not been your worst of clients.

VOLT: Mosca!--

MOS: When will you have your inventory brought, sir?
Or see a coppy of the will?--Anon!--
I will bring them to you, sir. Away, be gone,
Put business in your face.

[EXIT VOLTORE.]

VOLP [SPRINGING UP.]: Excellent Mosca!
Come hither, let me kiss thee.

MOS: Keep you still, sir.
Here is Corbaccio.

VOLP: Set the plate away:
The vulture's gone, and the old raven's come!

MOS: Betake you to your silence, and your sleep:
Stand there and multiply.
[PUTTING THE PLATE TO THE REST.]
Now, shall we see
A wretch who is indeed more impotent
Than this can feign to be; yet hopes to hop
Over his grave.--