The Jew of Malta.
Bar.
Daughter, a word more; kisse him, speake him faire,
And like a cunning Jew so cast about,
That ye be both made sure e're you come out.
Abig.
Oh father, Don Mathias is my love.
Bar.
I know it: yet I say make love to him;
Doe, it is requisite it should be so.
Nay on my life it is my Factors hand,
But goe you in, I'le thinke upon the account:
The account is made, for Lodowicke dyes.
My Factor sends me word a Merchant's fled
That owes me for a hundred Tun of Wine:
I weigh it thus much; I have wealth enough.
For now by this has he kist Abigall;
And she vowes love to him, and hee to her.
As sure as heaven rain'd Manna for the Jewes,
So sure shall he and Don Mathias dye:
His father was my chiefest enemie.
Whither goes Don Mathias? stay a while.
Enter Mathias.
Math.
Wither but to my faire love Abigall?
Bar.
Thou know'st, and heaven can witnesse it is true,
That I intend my daughter shall be thine.
Math.
I, Barabas, or else thou wrong'st me much:
Bar.
Oh heaven forbid I should have such a thought.
Pardon me though I weepe; the Governors sonne
Will, whether I will or no, have Abigall:
He sends her letters, bracelets, jewels, rings.
Math.
Does she receive them?
Bar.
Shee? No, Mathias, no, but sends them backe,
And when he comes, she lockes her selfe up fast;
Yet through the key-hole will he talke to her,
While she runs to the window looking out
When you should come and hale him from the doore:
Math.
Oh treacherous Lodowicke!
Bar.
Even now as I came home, he slipt me in,
And I am sure he is with Abigall.
Math.
I'le rouze him thence.
Bar.
