ely, All he writes is railing: And when his plays come forth, think they can flout them, With saying, he was a year about them. To this there needs no lie, but this his creature, Which was two months since no feature; And though he dares give them five lives to mend it, 'Tis known, five weeks fully penn'd it, From his own hand, without a co-adjutor, Novice, journey-man, or tutor. Yet thus much I can give you as a token Of his play's worth, no eggs are broken, Nor quaking custards with fierce teeth affrighted, Wherewith your rout are so delighted; Nor hales he in a gull old ends reciting, To stop gaps in his loose writing; With such a deal of monstrous and forced action, As might make Bethlem a faction: Nor made he his play for jests stolen from each table, But makes jests to fit his fable; And so presents quick comedy refined, As best critics have designed; The laws of time, place, persons he observeth, From no needful rule he swerveth. All gall and copperas from his ink he draineth, Only a little salt remaineth, Wherewith he'll rub your cheeks, till red, with laughter, They shall look fresh a week after.

ACT 1. SCENE 1.1.

     A ROOM IN VOLPONE'S HOUSE.

     ENTER VOLPONE AND MOSCA.

     VOLP: Good morning to the day; and next, my gold:
     Open the shrine, that I may see my Saint.
     [MOSCA WITHDRAWS THE CURTAIN, AND DISCOVERS PILES OF GOLD,
     PLATE, JEWELS, ETC.]
     Hail the world's soul, and mine! more glad than is
     The teeming earth to see the long'd-for sun
     Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram,
     Am I, to view thy splendour darkening his;
     That lying here, amongst my other hoards,
     Shew'st like a flame by night; or like the day