Volpone a new version
One-Man / Woman
Californian Lives (m/f)
Now We Are Pope (m)
Tadzio Speaks . . . (m)
The Butterfly's Wing
First and Fiftieth
A Sense of Loss
You send no man to debtors' prison where flesh rots and bones protrude.
Your sweet nature recoils from such measures. You will not have the tears of
widows and orphans wet your pavement nor hear their pitiful cries.
Never, Mosca. I am too kind.
You are no miser, like the merchant who fills his vaults with the best wines yet
drinks the sourest vinegar. You do not lie on straw while moths feed on
sumptuous hangings and soft beds. You know the use of riches and sometimes
give from that bright heap to me, your servant, more than enough for
What else should I do but use my genius to enjoy the delights my fortune offers
me? I have no wife, no parents, children or other kin to leave my money to.
Whomever I choose will be my heir. Clients come daily to my house, with
presents of gold and jewels, in the hope that when I die they will receive ten
times as much. I am the fox who plays with their hopes and kindness, brushes
the gold against their lips and then withdraws it again. What sport that is!
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