The Jew of Malta.
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
