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Act Three, Scene Four

Enter Barabas reading a letter.

What, Abigall become a Nunne againe?
False, and unkinde; what, hast thou lost thy father?
And all unknowne, and unconstrain'd of me,
Art thou againe got to the Nunnery?
Now here she writes, and wils me to repent.
Repentance? Spurca: what pretendeth this?
I feare she knowes ('tis so) of my device
In Don Mathias and Lodovicoes deaths:
If so, 'tis time that it be seene into:
For she that varies from me in beleefe
Gives great presumption that she loves me not;
Or loving, doth dislike of something done.
[Enter Ithimore.]

But who comes here? Oh Ithimore come neere;
Come neere, my love, come neere, thy masters life,
My trusty servant, nay, my second selfe;
For I have now no hope but even in thee;
And on that hope my happinesse is built:
When saw'st thou Abigall?

To day.

With whom?

A Fryar.

A Fryar? false villaine, he hath done the deed.

How, Sir?

Why, made mine Abigall a Nunne.

That's no Iye, for she sent me for him.

Oh unhappy day,
False, credulous, inconstant Abigall!
But let 'em goe: And Ithimore, from hence
Ne're shall she grieve me more with her disgrace;
Ne're shall she live to inherit ought 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.

Oh master.

Ithimore, intreat not for her, I am mov'd,
And she is hatefull to my soule and me:
And less thou yeeld to this that I intreat,
I cannot thinke but that thou hat'st my life.

Who I, master? Why I'le run to some rocke and throw
my selfe headlong into the sea; why I'le doe any thing for your
sweet sake.

Oh trusty lthimore; no servant, but my friend;
I here adopt thee for mine onely heire,
All that I have is thine when I am dead,
And whilst I live use halfe; spend as my selfe;
Here take my keyes, I'le give 'em thee anon.
Goe buy thee garments: but thou shalt not want:
Onely know this, that thus thou art to doe:
But first goe fetch me in the pot of Rice
That for our supper stands upon the fire.

I hold my head my master's hungry: I goe Sir.

Thus every villaine ambles after wealth
Although he ne're be richer then in hope:
But hush't.
Enter Ithimorewith the pot.

Here 'tis, Master.

Well said, Ithimore;
What, hast thou brought the Ladle with thee too?

Yes, Sir, the proverb saies, he that eats with the devil
had need of a long spoone. I have brought you a Ladle.

Very well, Ithimore, then now be secret;
And for thy sake, whom I so dearely love,
Now shalt thou see the death of Abigall,
That thou mayst freely live to be my heire.

Why, master, wil you poison her with a messe of rice
porredge? that wil preserve life, make her round and plump, and
batten more then you are aware.

I but Ithimore seest thou this?
It is a precious powder that I bought
Of an Italian in Ancona once,
Whose operation is to binde, infect,
And poyson deeply: yet not appeare
In forty houres after it is tane.

How master?

Thus Ithimore:
This Even they use in Malta here ('tis call'd
Saint Jaques Even) and then I say they use
To send their Almes unto the Nunneries:
Among the rest beare this, and set it there;
There's a darke entry where they take it in,
Where they must neither see the messenger,
Nor make enquiry who hath sent it them.

How so?

Belike there is some Ceremony in't.
There Ithimore must thou goe place this pot:
Stay, let me spice it first.

Pray doe, and let me help you, master. Pray let me
taste first.

Prethe doe: what saist thou now?

Troth master, I'm loth such a pot of pottage should be

Peace, Ithimore, tis better so then spar'd.
Assure thy selfe thou shalt have broth by the eye.
My purse, my Coffer, and my selfe is shine.

Well, master, I goe.

Stay, first let me stirre it Ithimore.
As fatall be it to her as the draught
Of which great Alexander drunke, and dyed:
And with her let it worke like Borgias wine,
Whereof his sire, the Pope, was poysoned.
In few, the blood of Hydra, Lerna's bane;
The jouyce of Hebon, and Cocitus breath,
And all the poysons of the Stygian poole
Breake from the fiery kingdome; and in this
Vomit your venome, and invenome her
That like a fiend hath left her father thus.

What a blessing has he given't? was ever pot of
rice porredge so sauc't? what shall I doe with it?

Oh my sweet Ithimore go set it downe
And come againe so soone as thou hast done,
For I have other businesse for thee.

Here's a drench to poyson a whole stable of Flanders
mares: I'le carry's to the Nuns with a powder.

And the horse pestilence to boot; away.

I am gone.
Pay me my wages for my worke is done.

Ile pay thee with a vengeance lthamore.

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