Act Three, Scene ThreeEnter Ithimore.
Why, was there ever seene such villany,
So neatly plotted, and so well perform'd?
Both held in hand, and flatly both beguil'd.
Why, how now Ithimore, why laugh'st thou so?
Oh, Mistresse, ha ha ha.
Why what ayl'st thou?
Oh my master.
Oh Mistris! I have the bravest, gravest, secret, subtil,
bottle-nos'd knave to my Master, that ever Gentleman had. Abigall
Say, knave, why rail'st upon my father thus?
Oh, my master has the bravest policy.
Why, know you not?
Know you not of Mathias and Don Lodowickes disaster?
No, what was it?
Why the devil invented a challenge, my master writ it,
and I carried it, first to Lodowicke, and imprimis to Mathias. And then they met, and as the story sayes,
In dolefull wise they ended both their dayes.
And was my father furtherer of their deaths?
Am I Ithimore?
So sure did your father write, and I cary the chalenge.
Well, Ithimore, let me request thee this,
Goe to the new made Nunnery, and inquire
For any of the Fryars of Saint Jaques,
And say, I pray them come and speake with me.
I pray, mistris, wil you answer me to one question?
Well, sirra, what is't?
A very feeling one; have not the Nuns fine sport with
the Fryars now and then?
Go to, sirra sauce, is this your question? get ye gon.
I will forsooth, Mistris. Exit.
Hard-hearted Father, unkind Barabas,
Was this the pursuit of thy policie?
To make me shew them favour severally,
That by my favour they should both be slaine?
Admit thou lov'dst not Lodowicke for his sire,
Yet Don Mathias ne're offended thee:
But thou wert set upon extreme revenge,
Because the Pryor dispossess thee once,
And couldst not venge it, but upon his sonne,
Nor on his sonne, but by Mathias meanes;
Nor on Mathias, but by murdering me.
But I perceive there is no love on earth,
Pitty in Jewes, nor piety in Turkes.
But here comes cursed Ithimore with the Fryar.
Enter Ithimore, 1. Fryar.
When, ducke you?
Welcome grave Fryar; Ithamore begon,
Know, holy Sir, I am bold to sollicite thee.
To get me be admitted for a Nun.
Why Abigal it is not yet long since
That I did labour thy admition,
And then thou didst not like that holy life.
Then were my thoughts so fraile and unconfirm'd,
And I was chain'd to follies of the world:
But now experience, purchased with griefe,
Has made me see the difference of things.
My sinfull soule, alas, hath pac'd too long
The fatall Labyrinth of misbeleefe,
Farre from the Sonne that gives eternall life.
Who taught thee this?
The Abbasse of the house
Whose zealous admonition I embrace:
Oh therefore, Jacomo, let me be one,
Although unworthy of that Sister-hood.
Abigal I will, but see thou change no more,
For that will be most heavy to thy soule.
That was my father's fault.
Thy father's, how?
Nay, you shall pardon me: oh Barabas,
Though thou deservest hardly at my hands,
Yet never shall these lips bewray thy life.
Come, shall we goe?
My duty waits on you.