Act 3 — [Scene VIII.][1674]

Mos. Where shall I run, most wretched shame of men, To beat out my unlucky brains? Volp. Here, here. What! dost thou bleed? Mos. O, that his well-driv’n sword Had been so courteous to have cleft me down Unto the navel, ere I liv’d to see5 My life, my hopes, my spirits, my patron, all Thus desperately engaged by my error! Volp. Woe on thy fortune! Mos. And my follies, sir. Volp. Thou hast made me miserable. Mos. And myself, sir. Who would have thought he would have heark’ned so?10 Volp. What shall we do? Mos. I know not; if my heart Could expiate the mischance, I’d pluck it out. Will you be pleas’d to hang me, or cut my throat? And I’ll requite you, sir. Let’s die like Romans,[1675] Since we have liv’d like Grecians. They knock without. Volp. Hark! who’s there?15 I hear some footing; officers, the saffi,[1676] Come to apprehend us! I do feel the brand Hissing already at my forehead; now Mine ears are boring. Mos. To your couch, sir, you, Make that place good, however. [Volpone lies down as before.] Guilty men20 Suspect what they deserve still. Signior Corbaccio!