The Jew of Malta · Act III · Scene IV

Scene IV
Enter Barabas, reading a letter.51
Barabas 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 pretendeth52 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 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: For I have now no hope but even in thee, And on that hope my happiness is built. When saw’st thou Abigail?
Ithamore To-day.
Barabas With whom?
Ithamore A friar.
Barabas A friar! false villain, he hath done the deed.
Ithamore How, sir!
Barabas Why, made mine Abigail a nun.
Ithamore That’s no lie; for she sent me for him.
Barabas 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, Be blest of me, nor come within my gates, But perish underneath my bitter curse, Like Cain by Adam for his brother’s death.
Ithamore O master!
Barabas Ithamore, entreat not for her, I am moved, And she is hateful to my soul and me: And ’less thou yield to this that I entreat, I cannot think but that thou hat’st my life.
Ithamore Who, I, master? Why, I’ll run to some rock, And throw myself headlong into the sea; Why, I’ll do anything for your sweet sake.
Barabas 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 shalt 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.
Ithamore I hold my head, my master’s hungry. Aside.⁠—I go, sir.
Exit.
Barabas Thus every villain ambles after wealth, Although he ne’er be richer than in hope:⁠— But, husht!
Reenter Ithamore with the pot.
Ithamore Here ’tis, master.
Barabas Well said, Ithamore! What, hast thou brought The ladle with thee too?
Ithamore Yes, sir, the proverb says, he that eats with the devil had need of a long spoon; I have brought you a ladle.
Barabas 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 mayst freely live to be my heir.
Ithamore 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.
Barabas Ay, but, Ithamore, seest thou this? It is a precious powder that I bought Of an Italian, in Ancona, once, Whose operation is to bind, infect, And poison deeply, yet not appear In forty hours after it is ta’en.
Ithamore How, master?
Barabas 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, Where they must neither see the messenger, Nor make inquiry who hath sent it them.
Ithamore How so?
Barabas Belike there is some ceremony in’t. There, Ithamore, must thou go place this pot! Stay, let me spice it first.
Ithamore Pray, do, and let me help you, master. Pray, let me taste first.
Barabas Prithee, do. Ithamore tastes. What say’st thou now?
Ithamore Troth, master, I’m loath such a pot of pottage should be spoiled.
Barabas Peace, Ithamore! ’tis better so than spared. Assure thyself thou shalt have broth by the eye, My purse, my coffer, and myself is thine.
Ithamore Well, master, I go.
Barabas 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,53 the blood of Hydra, Lerna’s bane: The juice of hebon,54 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.
Ithamore What a blessing has he given’t! was ever pot of rice-porridge so sauced? Aside. What shall I do with it?
Barabas O, my sweet Ithamore, go set it down, And come again so soon as thou hast done, For I have other business for thee.
Ithamore Here’s a drench to poison a whole stable of Flanders mares: I’ll carry’t to the nuns with a powder.
Barabas And the horse pestilence to boot; away!
Ithamore I am gone: Pay me my wages, for my work is done.
Exit.
Barabas I’ll pay thee with a vengeance, Ithamore!
Exit.