MOS: 'Tis right, sir.

CORB: Still, my invention.

MOS: 'Las, sir! heaven knows,
It hath been all my study, all my care,
(I e'en grow gray withal,) how to work things--

CORB: I do conceive, sweet Mosca.

MOS: You are he,
For whom I labour here.

CORB: Ay, do, do, do:
I'll straight about it.
[GOING.]

MOS: Rook go with you, raven!

CORB: I know thee honest.

MOS [ASIDE.]: You do lie, sir!

CORB: And--

MOS: Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir.

CORB: I do not doubt, to be a father to thee.