Monologue text
Mosca from "Volpone" by Ben Jonson
Information
Volpone (Act 3, Scene I)
Role: Mosca, (parasite of Volpone)
Place: Venice
Place: Venice
Monologue
MOSCA: I fear, I shall begin to grow in love
With my dear self, and my most prosp’rous parts,
They do so spring, and burgeon; I can feel
A whimsy in my blood: I know not how,
Success hath made me wanton. I could skip
Out of my skin, now, like a subtle snake,
I am so limber. O! Your parasite
Is a most precious thing, dropped from above,
Not bred ’mongst clods, and clo[d]polles, here on earth.
I muse, the mysterie(1) was not made a science,
It is so liberally professed! Almost,
All the wise world is little else, in nature
But parasites, or sub-parasites. And yet
I mean not those, that have your bare town-art,
To know, who’s fit to feed ’hem; have no house,
No family, no care, and therefore mold
Tales for men’s ears, to bait that sense; or get
Kitchen-invention,(2) and some stale receipts
To please the belly, and the groin; nor those,
With their court-dog-tricks, that can fawn, and fleer,
Make their revenue out of legs, and faces,
Echo my-Lord, and lick away a moth:
But you fine, elegant rascal, that can rise,
And stoop (almost together) like an arrow;
Shoot through the air, as nimbly as a star;
Turn short, as doth a swallow; and be here,
And there, and here, and yonder, all at once;
Present to any humor, all occasion;
And change a visor, swifter, than a thought!
This is the creature, had the art born with him;
Toils not to learn it, both doth practice it
Out of most excellent nature: and such sparks,
Are the true parasites, others but their zanies.
With my dear self, and my most prosp’rous parts,
They do so spring, and burgeon; I can feel
A whimsy in my blood: I know not how,
Success hath made me wanton. I could skip
Out of my skin, now, like a subtle snake,
I am so limber. O! Your parasite
Is a most precious thing, dropped from above,
Not bred ’mongst clods, and clo[d]polles, here on earth.
I muse, the mysterie(1) was not made a science,
It is so liberally professed! Almost,
All the wise world is little else, in nature
But parasites, or sub-parasites. And yet
I mean not those, that have your bare town-art,
To know, who’s fit to feed ’hem; have no house,
No family, no care, and therefore mold
Tales for men’s ears, to bait that sense; or get
Kitchen-invention,(2) and some stale receipts
To please the belly, and the groin; nor those,
With their court-dog-tricks, that can fawn, and fleer,
Make their revenue out of legs, and faces,
Echo my-Lord, and lick away a moth:
But you fine, elegant rascal, that can rise,
And stoop (almost together) like an arrow;
Shoot through the air, as nimbly as a star;
Turn short, as doth a swallow; and be here,
And there, and here, and yonder, all at once;
Present to any humor, all occasion;
And change a visor, swifter, than a thought!
This is the creature, had the art born with him;
Toils not to learn it, both doth practice it
Out of most excellent nature: and such sparks,
Are the true parasites, others but their zanies.
(1) mystery: profession
(2) kitchen-invention elaborate or ingenious recipes (receipts)
(2) kitchen-invention elaborate or ingenious recipes (receipts)
~Check also this monologue: The Fall of the house of Usher by E.A. Poe~
(Adapted for theatre by Alice Katsavou)
(Adapted for theatre by Alice Katsavou)
Σχόλια
Δημοσίευση σχολίου