Volpone; Or, the Fox
1607
Ben Jonson's savage masterpiece plays like a revenge comedy on human nature itself. Volpone, a wealthy Venetian libertine, lies in bed feigning his final illness while a parade of greedy suitors arrives bearing gifts and flattery, each desperate to be named heir to his fortune. With his cunning servant Mosca as orchestrator, Volpone extracts ever-more-outlandish offerings from lawyers, merchants, and nobles, revelling in their humiliation and desperation. But the web of deception grows tangled, and when the fox is finally unmasked, Jonson delivers a conclusion as merciless as it is entertaining. Written in blistering blank verse, this 1607 comedy refuses to look away from the ugly truth that money makes monsters of ordinary people. It endures because Jonson's wit cuts both ways: he despises his characters' greed, but delights in their elaborate foolishness. For readers who enjoy theatre that entertains while it excoriates, that finds comedy in corruption and justice in exposure.
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“Mischiefs feed / Like beasts, till they be fat, and then they bleed.””
— Ben Jonson
“Riches, the dumb god that giv'st all men tongues, / That canst do nought, and yet mak'st men do all things; / The price of souls; even hell, with thee to boot, / Is made worth heaven!””
— Ben Jonson
“Poor wretches! I rather pity their folly and indiscretion, than their loss of time and money; for these may be recovered by industry: but to be a fool born is a disease incurable.””
— Ben Jonson
“Riches are in fortune A greater good than wisdom is in nature.””
— Ben Jonson
“SIR P: Sir, calumnies are answer'd best with silence.””
— Ben Jonson
“Hood an ass with reverend purple,...And he shall pass for a cathedral doctor"(1. 2. 113-115)””
— Ben Jonson
“CORV: Honour! tut, a breath: There's no such thing, in nature: a mere term Invented to awe fools.””
— Ben Jonson
“MOS: And besides, sir, You are not like a thresher that doth stand With a huge flail, watching a heap of corn, And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest grain, But feeds on mallows, and such bitter herbs; Nor like the merchant, who hath fill'd his vaults With Romagnia, and rich Candian wines, Yet drinks the lees of Lombard's vinegar: You will not lie in straw, whilst moths and worms Feed on your sumptuous hangings and soft beds; You know the use of riches, and dare give now From that bright heap, to me, your poor observer, Or to your dwarf, or your hermaphrodite, Your eunuch, or what other household-trifle Your pleasure allows maintenance.””
— Ben Jonson
“MOSCAI fear, I shall begin to grow in love With my dear self, and my most prosperous 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, dropt from above, Not bred 'mongst clods, and clodpoles, here on earth. I muse, the mystery was not made a science, It is so liberally profest! almost All the wise world is little else, in nature, But parasites, or sub-parasites.”
— Ben Jonson
