Page:The Jew of Malta - Marlowe (1633).pdf/71

 Pil. Knauely spoke, and like a Knight at Armes.

Ith. Hey Rivo Castiliano, a man's a man.

Curt. Now to the Jew.

Ith. Ha to the Jew, and send me mony you were best.

Pil. What wudst thou doe if he should send thee none?

Ith. Doe nothing; but I know what I know, He's a murderer.

Curt. I had not thought he had been so brave a man.

Ith. You knew Mathias and the Governors son, he and I kild 'em both, and yet never touch'd 'em.

Pil. Oh bravely done.

Ith. I carried the broth that poyson'd the Nuns, and he And I snicle hand too fast, strangled a Fryar.

Curt. You two alone.

Ith. We two, and 'twas never knowne, nor never shall Be for me.

Pil. This shall with me unto the Governor.

Curt. And fit it should: but first let's ha more gold. Come gentle Ithimore, lye in my lap.

Ith. Love me little, love me long, let musicke rumble, Whilst I in thy incoomy lap doe tumble.

Curt. A French Musician, come let's heare your skill?

Bar. Must tuna my Lute for sound, twang twang first.

Ith. Wilt drinke French-man, here's to thee with a — Pox on this drunken hick-up.

Bar. Gramercy Mounsier.

Curt. Prethe, Pilia-borza, bid the Fidler give me The posey in his hat there.

Pil. Sirra, you must give my mistris your posey.

Bar. A voustre commandemente Madam.

Curt. How sweet, my Ithimore, the flowers smell.

Ith. Like thy breath, sweet-hart, no violet like 'em.

Pil. Foh, me thinkes they stinke like a Holly-Hoke.

Bar. So, now I am reveng'd upon 'em all. The scent thereof was death, I poyson'd it.

Ith. Play, Fidler, or I'le cut your cats guts into chitterlins