Actus Tertius.
Enter a Curtezane.
Since this Towne was besieg'd, my gaine growes cold:
The time has bin that, but for one bare night
A hundred Duckets have bin freely given:
But now against my will I must be chast.
And yet I know my beauty doth not faile.
From Venice Merchants, and from Padua,
Were wont to come rare witted Gentlemen,
Schollers I meane, learned and liberall;
And now, save Pilia-borza, comes there none,
And he is very seldome from my house;
And here he comes.
Enter Pilia-borza.
Pilia.
Hold thee, wench, there's something for thee to spend.
Curt.
'Tis silver. I disdaine it.
Pilia.
I, but the Jew has gold,
And I will have it or it shall goe hard.
Curt.
Tell me, how cam'st thou by this?
Pilia.
Faith, walking the backe lanes through the Gardens
I chanc'd to cast mine eye up to the Jewes counting-house
Where I saw some bags of mony, and in the night I
Clamber'd up with my hooks, and as I was taking
My choyce, I heard a rumbling in the house; so I tooke
Onely this, and runne my way: but here's the Jews man.
Enter Ithimore.
Curt.
Hide the bagge.
Pilia.
Looke not towards him, let's away:
Zoon's, what a looking thou keep'st,
Thou'lt betraye's anon.
Ith.
Oh the sweetest face that ever I beheld! I know she is
A Curtezan by her attire: now would I give a hundred
Of the Jewes Crownes that I had such a Concubine.
Well, I have deliver'ed the challenge in such sort,
As meet they will, and fighting dye; brave sport.Exit.
Enter Mathias.
Math.
This is the place, now Abigall shall see
Whether Mathias holds her deare or no.
Enter Lodow. reading.
Math.
What, dares the villain write in such base terms?
Lod.
I did it, and revenge it if thou dar'st.
Fight: Enter Barabas above.
Bar.
Oh bravely fought; and yet they thrust not home.
Now Lodowicke, now Mathias, so;
So now they have shew'd themselves to be tal1 fellowes.
Within.
Part 'em, part 'em.
Bar.
I, part 'em now they are dead: Farewell, farewell. Exit.
Enter Governor. Mater.
Gov.
What sight is this? my Lodowicke slaine!
These armes of mine shall be thy Sepulchre.
Mater.
Who is this? my sonne Mathias slaine!
Gov.
Oh Lodowicke! had'st thou perish'd by the Turke,
Wretched Ferneze might have veng'd thy death.
Mater.
Thy sonne slew mine, and I'le revenge his death.
Gov.
Looke, Katherin, looke, thy sonne gave mine these wounds.
Mat.
Oh leave to grive me, I am griev'd enough.
Gov.
Oh that my sighs could turne to lively breath;
And these my teares to blood, that he might live.
Mater.
Who made them enemies?
Gov.
I know not, and that grieves me most of all.
Mat.
My son lov'd thine.
Gov.
And so did Lodowicke him.
Mat.
Lend me that weapon that did kill my sonne,
And it shall murder me.
Gov.
Nay Madem stay, that weapon was my son's,
And on that rather should Ferneze dye.
Mat.
Hold, let's inquire the causers of their deaths,
That we may venge their blood upon their heads.
Gov.
Then take them up, and let them be interr'd
Within one sacred monument of stone;
Upon which Altar I will offer up
My daily sacrifice of sighs and teares,
And with my prayers pierce impartia1l heavens,
Till they the causers of our smarts,
Which forc'd their hands divide united hearts:
Come, Katherina, our losses equall are,
Then of true griefe let us take equall share.Exeunt.
Enter Ithimore.
Ith.
Why was there ever seene such villany, so neatly
Plotted, and so well perform'd? both held in hand, and
Flatly both beguil'd?
Enter Abigall.
Abig.
Why how now, Ithimore, why laugh'st thou so?
Ith.
Oh, Mistresse, ha ha ha.
Abig.
Why what ayl'st thou?
Ith.
Oh my master.
Abig.
Ha.
Ith.
Oh Mistris! I have the bravest, gravest, secret, subtil
Bottle-nos'd knave to my Master, that ever Gentleman had
Abig.
Say, knave, why rail'st upon my father thus?
Ith.
Oh, my master has the bravest policy.
Abig.
Wherein?
Ith.
Why, know you not?
Abig.
Why no.
Ith.
Know you not of Mathia & Don Lodowick disaster?
Abig.
No, what was it?
Ith.
Why the devil invented a challenge, my Mr. writ it,
And I carried it, first to Lodowicke, and impremis to Mathia.
And then they met, as the story sayes,
In dolefull wise they ended both their dayes.
Abig.
And was my father furtherer of their deaths?
Ith.
Am I Ithimore?
Abig.
Yes.
Ith.
So sure did your father write, & I cary the chalenge.
Abig.
Well, Ithimore, let me request thee this,
Goe to the new made Nunnery, and inquire
For any of the Fryars of St. Jaynes,
And say, I pray them come and speake with me.
Ith.
I pray, mistris, wil you answer me to one question?
Abig.
Well, sirra, what is't?
Ith.
A very feeling one; have not the Nuns fine sport
With the Fryars now and then?
Abig.
Go to, sirra sauce, is this your question? get ye gon
Ith.
I will forsooth, Mistris. Exit.
Abig.
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 sinne,
Yet Don Mathias ne're offended thee:
But thou wert set upon extreme revenge,
Because the Pryor dispossest 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. Fryar.
Fry.
Virgo, salve.
Ith.
When ducke you?
Abig.
Welcome grave Fryar; Ithamore begon, Exit.
Know, holy Sir, I am bold to sollicite thee.
Fry.
Wherein?
Abig.
To get me be admitted for a Nun.
Fry.
Why Abigal it is not yet long since
That I did labour thy admition,
And then thou didst not like that holy life.
Abig.
Then were my thoughts so fraile & 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.
Fry.
Who taught thee this?
Abig.
The Abbasse of the house,
Whose zealous admonition I embrace:
Oh therefore, Jacomi, let me be one,
Although unworthy of that Sister-hood.
Fry.
Abigal I will, but see, thou change no more,
For that will be most heavy to thy soule.
Abig.
That was my father's fault.
Fry.
Thy father's, how?
Abig.
Nay, you shall pardon me: oh Barabas,
Though thou deservest hardly at my hands,
Yet never shall these lips bewray thy life.
Fry.
Come, shall we goe?
Abig.
My duty waits on you. Exeunt.
Enter Barabas reading a letter.
Bar.
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:
But who comes here? Oh Ithimore come neere;
Come neere my love, come neere thy masters life,
My trusty servant, nay, my second life;
For I have now no hope but even in thee;
And on that hope my happinesse is built:
When saw'st thou Abigall?
Ith.
To day.
Bar.
With whom?
Ith.
A Fryar.
Bar.
A Fryar? false villaine, he hath done the deed.
Ith.
How, Sir?
Bar.
Why made mine Abigall a Nunne.
Ith.
That's no lye, for she sent me for him.
Brr.
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.
Ith.
Oh master.
Bar.
Ithimore, intreat not for her, I am mov'd,
And she is hatefull to my soule and me:
And least thou yeeld to this that I intreat,
I cannot thinke but that thou hat'st my life.
Ith.
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.
Bar.
Oh trusty Ithimore; 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 helfe; 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.
Ith.
I hold my head my master's hungry: I goe Sir. Exit.
Bar.
Thus every villaine ambles after wealth
Although he ne're be richer then in hope:
But hush't.
Enter Ithimore with the pot.
Ith.
Here 'tis, Master.
Bar.
Well said, Ithimore; what hast thou brought
The Ladle with thee too?
Ith.
Yes, Sir, the proverb saies, he that eats with the devil
Had need of a long spoone, I have brought you a Ladle.
Bar.
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.
Ith.
Why, master, wil you poison her with a messe of rice
Porredge that wil preserve life, make her round & plump,
And batten more then you are aware.
Bar.
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.
Ith.
How master?
Bar.
Thus Ithimore:
This Even they use in Malta here ('tis call'd
Saint Jagues 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.
Ith.
How so?
Bar.
Belike there is some Ceremony in't.
There Ithimore must thou goe place this plot:
Stay, let me spice it first.
Ith.
Pray doe, and let me help you Mr. Pray let me taste first.
Bar.
Prethe doe: what saist thou now?
Ith.
Troth Mr. I'm loth such a pot of pottage should be spoyld.
Bar.
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 thine.
Ith.
Well, master, I goe.
Bar.
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 poyson'd.
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.
Ith.
What a blessing has he giv'nt? was ever pot of
Rice porredge so sauc't? what shall I doe with it?
Bar.
Oh my sweet Ithimore goe set it downe
And come againe so soone as thou hast done,
For I have other businesse for thee.
Ith.
Here's a drench to poyson a whole stable of
Flanders mares: I'le carry't to the Nuns with a powder.
Bar.
And the horse pestilence to boot; away.
Ith,
I am gone.
Pay me my wages for my worke is done. Exit.
Bar.
Ile pay thee with a vengeance Ithamore. Exit.
Enter Govern. Bosco. Knights. Bashaw.
Gov.
Welcome great Bashaws, how fares Callymath,
What wind drives you thus into Malta rhode?
Bash.
The wind that bloweth all the world besides,
Desire of gold.
Gov.
Desire of gold, great Sir?
That's to be gotten in the Westerne Inde:
In Malta are no golden Minerals.
Bash.
To you of Malta thus saith Calymath:
The time you tooke for respite, is at hand,
For the performance of your promise past;
And for the Tribute-mony I am sent.
Gov.
Bashaw, in briefe, shalt have no tribute here,
Nor shall the Heathens live upon our spoyle:
First will we race the City wals our selves,
Lay waste the Iland, hew the Temples downe,
And shipping of our goods to Sicily,
Open an entrance for the wastfull sea,
Whose billowes beating the resistlesse bankes,
Shall overflow it with their refluence.
Bash.
Well, Governor, since thou hast broke the league
By flat denyall of the promis'd Tribute,
Talke not of racing downe your City wals,
You shall not need trouble your selves so farre,
For Selim-Calymath shall come himselfe,
And with brasse-bullets batter downe your Towers,
And turne proud Malta to a wildernesse
For these intolerable wrongs of yours; And so farewell.
Gov.
Farewell:
And now you men of Malta looke about,
And let's provide to welcome Calymath:
Close your Port-cullise, charge your Basiliskes,
And as you profitably take up Armes,
So now couragiously encounter them;
For by this Answer, broken is the league,
And nought is to be look'd for now but warres,
And nought to us more welcome is then wars. Exeunt.
Enter two Fryars and Abigall.
1 Fry.
Oh brother, brother, all the Nuns are sicke,
And Physicke will not helpe them, they must dye.
2 Fry.
The Abbasse sent for me to be confest:
Oh what a sad confession will there be?
1 Fry.
And so did faire Maria send for me:
I'le to her lodging; hereabouts she lyes. Exit.
Enter Abigall.
2 Fry.
What, all dead save onely Abigall?
Abig.
And I shall dye too, for I feele death comming.
Where is the Fryar that converst with me?
2 Fry.
Oh he is gone to see the other Nuns.
Abig.
I sent for him, but seeing you are come
Be you my ghostly father; and first know,
That in this house I liv'd religiously,
Chast, and devout, much sorrowing for my sinnes,
But e're I came ———
2 Fry.
What then?
Abig.
I did offend high heaven so grievously,
As I am almost desperate for my sinnes:
And one offence torments me more then all.
You knew Mathias and Don Lodowicke?
2 Fry.
Yes, what of them?
Abig.
My father did contract me to 'em both:
First to Don Lodowicke, him I never lov'd;
Mathias was the man that I held deare,
And for his sake did I become a Nunne.
2 Fry.
So, say how was their end?
Abig.
Both jealous of my love, envied each other:
And by my father's practice, which is there
Set downe at large, the Gallants were both slaine.
2 Fry.
Oh monstrous villany:
Abig.
To worke my peace, this I confesse to thee:
Reveale it not, for then my father dyes.
2 Fry.
Know that Confession must not be reveal'd,
The Canon Law forbids it, and the Priest
That makes it knowne, being degraded first,
Shall be condemn'd, and then sent to the fire,
Abig.
So I have heard; pray therefore keepe it close,
Death seizeth on my heart, ah gentle Fryar
Convert my father that he may be sav'd,
And witnesse that I dye a Christian.
2 Fry.
I, and a Virgin too, that grieves me most:
But I must to the Jew and exclaime on him,
And make him stand in feare of me.
Enter 1 Fryar.
1 Fry.
Oh brother, all the Nuns are dead, let's bury them.
2 Fry.
First helpe to bury this, then goe with me
And helpe me to exclaime against the Jew.
1 Fry.
Why? what has he done?
2 Fry.
A thing that makes me tremble to unfold.
1 Fry.
What haa he crucified a child?
2 Fry.
No, but a worse thing: 'twas told me in shrift,
Thou know'st 'tis death and if it be reveal'd.
Come let's away. Exeunt.