n, and stripping her
out of those rotten and base rags wherewith the times have adulterated
her form, restore her to her primitive habit, feature, and majesty,
and render her worthy to be embraced and kist of all the great and
master-spirits of our world. As for the vile and slothful, who never
affected an act worthy of celebration, or are so inward with their own
vicious natures, as they worthily fear her, and think it an high point
of policy to keep her in contempt, with their declamatory and windy
invectives; she shall out of just rage incite her servants (who are
genus irritabile) to spout ink in their faces, that shall eat farther
than their marrow into their fames; and not Cinnamus the barber, with
his art, shall be able to take out the brands; but they shall live, and
be read, till the wretches die, as things worst deserving of themselves
in chief, and then of all mankind.

From my House in the Black-Friars,

this 11th day of February, 1607.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

VOLPONE, a Magnifico.

MOSCA, his Parasite.

VOLTORE, an Advocate.

CORBACCIO, an old Gentleman.

CORVINO, a Merchant.

BONARIO, son to Corbaccio.

SIR POLITICK WOULD-BE, a Knight.

PEREGRINE, a Gentleman Traveller.

NANO, a Dwarf.

CASTRONE, an Eunuch.

ANDROGYNO, an Hermaphrodite.

GREGE (or Mob).

COMMANDADORI, Officers of Justice.

MERCATORI, three Merchants.

AVOCATORI, four Magistrates.

NOTARIO, the Register.

LADY WOULD-BE, Sir Politick's Wife.

CELIA, Corvino's Wife.

SERVITORI, Servants, two Waiting-women, etc.

SCENE: VENICE.

THE ARGUMENT.

V olpone, childless, rich, feigns sick, despairs,

O ffers his state to hopes of several heirs,

L ies languishing: his parasite receives

P resents of all, assures, deludes; then weaves

O ther cross plots, which ope themselves, are told.

N ew tricks for safety are sought; they thrive: when bold,

E ach tempts the other again, and all are sold.

PROLOGUE.

Now, luck yet sends us, and a little wit
Will serve to make our play hit;
(According to the palates of the season)
Here is rhime, not empty of reason.
This we were bid to credit from our poet,
Whose true scope, if you would know it,
In all his poems still hath been this measure,
To mix profit with your pleasure;
And not as some, whose throats their envy failing,
Cry hoarsely, All he writes is railing:
And when his plays