Page:The Jew of Malta - Marlowe (1633).pdf/45

 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.

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.