On a bright morning in 1606, in a lavish chamber in Venice, a rich old man lies draped in silks on a makeshift sickbed. He groans feebly, as if at death’s door. One by one, the most eminent gentlemen of the city tiptoe into his room, each bearing extravagant gifts – gold plate, jewels, a luxuriously embroidered cap. They coo sympathetic words to the “dying” man, calling him noble Signor Volpone, praising his virtue, praying for his recovery. But as soon as each hopeful visitor departs, Volpone leaps from his bed with a spry grin. There is nothing sickly about him at all. It’s all a ruse, a grand practical joke to fleece those fawning legacy-hunters who lust after his fortune. Hidden behind a curtain, Volpone’s clever servant Mosca keeps a straight face as he ushers in the next greedy guest. This delicious charade continues, growing more absurd wi ...