SCENE IV.

_Enter_[92] BARABAS, _reading a letter._

_Bar._ What, Abigail become a nun again! False and unkind; what, hast thou lost thy father? And all unknown, and unconstrained of me, Art thou again got to the nunnery? Now here she writes, and wills me to repent. Repentance! _Spurca!_ what pretendeth[93] this? I fear she knows--'tis so--of my device In Don Mathias' and Lodovico's deaths: If so, 'tis time that it be seen into: For she that varies from me in belief 10 Gives great presumption that she loves me not; Or loving, doth dislike of something done. But who comes here?

_Enter_ ITHAMORE.

O Ithamore, come near; Come near, my love; come near, thy master's life, My trusty servant, nay, my second self:[94] For I have now no hope but even in thee: And on that hope my happiness is built; When saw'st thou Abigail?

_Itha._ To-day.

_Bar._ With whom? 20

_Itha._ A friar.

_Bar._ A friar! false villain, he hath done the deed.

_Itha._ How, sir?

_Bar._ Why, made mine Abigail a nun.

_Itha._ That's no lie, for she sent me for him.

_Bar._ O unhappy day! False, credulous, inconstant Abigail! But let 'em go: and, Ithamore, from hence Ne'er shall she grieve me more with her disgrace; Ne'er shall she live to inherit aught of mine, 30 Be blest of me, nor come within my gates, But perish underneath my bitter curse, Like Cain by Adam, for his brother's death.

_Itha._ O master!

_Bar._ Ithamore, entreat not for her, I am moved, And she is hateful to my soul and me: And 'less[95] thou yield to this that I entreat, I cannot think but that thou hat'st my life.

_Itha._ Who, I, master? Why, I'll run to some rock, And throw myself headlong into the sea; 40 Why, I'll do anything for your sweet sake.

_Bar._ O trusty Ithamore, no servant, but my friend: I here adopt thee for mine only heir, All that I have is thine when I am dead, And whilst I live use half; spend as myself; Here take my keys, I'll give 'em thee anon: Go buy thee garments: but thou shall not want: Only know this, that thus thou art to do: But first go fetch me in the pot of rice That for our supper stands upon the fire. 50

_Itha._ I hold my head my master's hungry. I go, sir. [_Exit._

_Bar._ Thus every villain ambles after wealth, Although he ne'er be richer than in hope: But, husht!

_Enter_ ITHAMORE _with the pot._

_Itha._ Here 'tis, master.

_Bar._ Well said, Ithamore; what, hast thou brought The ladle with thee too?

_Itha._ Yes, sir, the proverb says he that eats with the devil had need of a long spoon.[96] I have brought you a ladle. 60

_Bar._ Very well, Ithamore, then now be secret; And for thy sake, whom I so dearly love, Now shalt thou see the death of Abigail, That thou may'st freely live to be my heir.

_Itha._ Why, master, will you poison her with a mess of rice porridge? that will preserve life, make her round and plump, and batten more than you are aware.

_Bar._ I, but, Ithamore, seest thou this? It is a precious powder that I bought Of an Italian, in Ancona, once, 70 Whose operation is to bind, infect, And poison deeply, yet not appear In forty hours after it is ta'en.

_Itha._ How, master?

_Bar._ Thus, Ithamore. This even they use in Malta here,--'tis called Saint Jacques' Even,--and then I say they use To send their alms unto the nunneries: Among the rest bear this, and set it there; There's a dark entry where they take it in, 80 Where they must neither see the messenger, Nor make inquiry who hath sent it them.

_Itha._ How so?

_Bar._ Belike there is some ceremony in't. There, Ithamore, must thou go place this pot![97] Stay, let me spice it first.

_Itha._ Pray do, and let me help you, master. Pray let me taste first.

_Bar._ Prythee do: what say'st thou now?

_Itha._ Troth, master, I'm loth such a pot of pottage should be spoiled. 90

_Bar._ Peace, Ithamore, 'tis better so than spared. Assure thyself thou shalt have broth by the eye.[98] My purse, my coffer, and myself is thine.

_Itha._ Well, master, I go.

_Bar._ Stay, first let me stir it, Ithamore. As fatal be it to her as the draught Of which great Alexander drunk and died: And with her let it work like Borgia's wine, Whereof his sire, the Pope, was poisoned. In few,[99] the blood of Hydra, Lerna's bane: 100 The juice of hebon,[100] and Cocytus' breath, And all the poisons of the Stygian pool Break from the fiery kingdom; and in this Vomit your venom and invenom her That like a fiend hath left her father thus.

_Itha._ What a blessing has he given 't! was ever pot of rice porridge so sauced! What shall I do with it?

_Bar._ O, my sweet Ithamore, go set it down, And come again so soon as thou hast done, For I have other business for thee. 110

_Itha._ Here's a drench to poison a whole stable of Flanders mares: I'll carry 't to the nuns with a powder.

_Bar._ And the horse pestilence to boot; away.

_Itha._ I am gone. Pay me my wages, for my work is done. [_Exit._

_Bar._ I'll pay thee with a vengeance, Ithamore. [_Exit._