The Jew of Malta, Christopher Marlowe [best classic books to read TXT] 📗

>BELLAMIRA. Tell me, how cam’st thou by this?

PILIA-BORZA. Faith, walking the back-lanes, through the gardens, I chanced to cast mine eye up to the Jew’s counting-house, where I saw some bags of money, and in the night I clambered up with my hooks; and, as I was taking my choice, I heard a rumbling in the house; so I took only this, and run my way.—But here’s the Jew’s man.

BELLAMIRA. Hide the bag.

Enter ITHAMORE.

PILIA-BORZA. Look not towards him, let’s away. Zoons, what a looking thou keepest! thou’lt betray’s anon. [Exeunt BELLAMIRA and PILIA-BORZA.]

ITHAMORE. O, the sweetest face that ever I beheld! I know she is a courtezan by her attire: now would I give a hundred of the Jew’s crowns that I had such a concubine. Well, I have deliver’d the challenge in such sort, As meet they will, and fighting die,—brave sport! [Exit.]

Enter MATHIAS.

MATHIAS. This is the place:<92> now Abigail shall see Whether Mathias holds her dear or no.

Enter LODOWICK.

What, dares the villain write in such base terms? [Looking at a letter.]

LODOWICK. I did it; and revenge it, if thou dar’st! [They fight.]

Enter BARABAS above.

BARABAS. O, bravely fought! and yet they thrust not home. Now, Lodovico!<93> now, Mathias!—So; [Both fall.] So, now they have shew’d themselves to be tall<94> fellows.

[Cries within] Part ‘em, part ‘em!

BARABAS. Ay, part ‘em now they are dead. Farewell, farewell! [Exit above.]

Enter FERNEZE, KATHARINE, and ATTENDANTS.

FERNEZE. What sight is this!<95> my Lodovico<96> slain! These arms of mine shall be thy sepulchre.<97>

KATHARINE. Who is this? my son Mathias slain!

FERNEZE. O Lodowick, hadst thou perish’d by the Turk, Wretched Ferneze might have veng’d thy death!

KATHARINE. Thy son slew mine, and I’ll revenge his death.

FERNEZE. Look, Katharine, look! thy son gave mine these wounds.

KATHARINE. O, leave to grieve me! I am griev’d enough.

FERNEZE. O, that my sighs could turn to lively breath, And these my tears to blood, that he might live!

KATHARINE. Who made them enemies?

FERNEZE. I know not; and that grieves me most of all.

KATHARINE. My son lov’d thine.

FERNEZE. And so did Lodowick him.

KATHARINE. Lend me that weapon that did kill my son, And it shall murder me.

FERNEZE. Nay, madam, stay; that weapon was my son’s, And on that rather should Ferneze die.

KATHARINE. Hold; let’s inquire the causers of their deaths, That we may venge their blood upon their heads.

FERNEZE. 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 tears, And with my prayers pierce impartial heavens, Till they [reveal] the causers of our smarts, Which forc’d their hands divide united hearts. Come, Katharine;<98> our losses equal are; Then of true grief let us take equal share. [Exeunt with the bodies.]

Enter ITHAMORE.<99>

ITHAMORE. Why, was there ever seen such villany, So neatly plotted, and so well perform’d? Both held in hand,<100> and flatly both beguil’d?

Enter ABIGAIL.

ABIGAIL. Why, how now, Ithamore! why laugh’st thou so?

ITHAMORE. O mistress! ha, ha, ha!

ABIGAIL. Why, what ail’st thou?

ITHAMORE. O, my master!

ABIGAIL. Ha!

ITHAMORE. O mistress, I have the bravest, gravest, secret, subtle, bottle-nosed<101> knave to my master, that ever gentleman had!

ABIGAIL. Say, knave, why rail’st upon my father thus?

ITHAMORE. O, my master has the bravest policy!

ABIGAIL. Wherein?

ITHAMORE. Why, know you not?

ABIGAIL. Why, no.

ITHAMORE. Know you not of Mathia[s’] and Don Lodowick[‘s] disaster?

ABIGAIL. No: what was it?

ITHAMORE. Why, the devil inverted a challenge, my master writ it, and I carried it, first to Lodowick, and imprimis to Mathia[s]; And then they met, [and], as the story says, In doleful wise they ended both their days.

ABIGAIL. And was my father furtherer of their deaths?

ITHAMORE. Am I Ithamore?

ABIGAIL. Yes.

ITHAMORE. So sure did your father write, and I carry the challenge.

ABIGAIL. Well, Ithamore, let me request thee this; Go to the new-made nunnery, and inquire For any of the friars of Saint Jaques,<102> And say, I pray them come and speak with me.

ITHAMORE. I pray, mistress, will you answer me to one question?

ABIGAIL. Well, sirrah, what is’t?

ITHAMORE. A very feeling one: have not the nuns fine sport with the friars now and then?

ABIGAIL. Go to, Sirrah Sauce! is this your question? get ye gone.

ITHAMORE. I will, forsooth, mistress. [Exit.]

ABIGAIL. Hard-hearted father, unkind Barabas! Was this the pursuit of thy policy, To make me shew them favour severally, That by my favour they should both be slain? Admit thou lov’dst not Lodowick for his sire,<103> Yet Don Mathias ne’er offended thee: But thou wert set upon extreme revenge, Because the prior dispossess’d thee once, And couldst not venge it but upon his son; Nor on his son but by Mathias’ means; Nor on Mathias but by murdering me: But I perceive there is no love on earth, Pity in Jews, nor piety in Turks.— But here comes cursed Ithamore with the friar.

Re-enter ITHAMORE with FRIAR JACOMO.

FRIAR JACOMO. Virgo, salve.

ITHAMORE. When duck you?

ABIGAIL. Welcome, grave friar.—Ithamore, be gone. [Exit ITHAMORE.] Know, holy sir, I am bold to solicit thee.

FRIAR JACOMO. Wherein?

ABIGAIL. To get me be admitted for a nun.

FRIAR JACOMO. Why, Abigail, it is not yet long since That I did labour thy admission, And then thou didst not like that holy life.

ABIGAIL. Then were my thoughts so frail and unconfirm’d As<104> I was chain’d to follies of the world: But now experience, purchased with grief, Has made me see the difference of things. My sinful soul, alas, hath pac’d too long The fatal labyrinth of misbelief, Far from the sun that gives eternal life!

FRIAR JACOMO. Who taught thee this?

ABIGAIL. The abbess of the house, Whose zealous admonition I embrace: O, therefore, Jacomo, let me be one, Although unworthy, of that sisterhood!

FRIAR JACOMO. Abigail, I will: but see thou change no more, For that will be most heavy to thy soul.

ABIGAIL. That was my father’s fault.

FRIAR JACOMO. Thy father’s! how?

ABIGAIL. Nay, you shall pardon me.—O Barabas, Though thou deservest hardly at my hands, Yet never shall these lips bewray thy life! [Aside.]

FRIAR JACOMO. Come, shall we go?

ABIGAIL. My duty waits on you. [Exeunt.]

Enter BARABAS,<105> reading a letter.

BARABAS. What, Abigail become a nun again! False and unkind! what, hast thou lost thy father? And, all unknown and unconstrain’d of me, Art thou again got to the nunnery? Now here she writes, and wills me to repent: Repentance! Spurca! what pretendeth<106> this? I fear she knows—‘tis so—of my device In Don Mathias’ and Lodovico’s deaths: If so, ‘tis time that it be seen into; For she that varies from me in belief, Gives great presumption that she loves me not, Or, loving, doth dislike of something done.— But who comes here?

Enter ITHAMORE.

O Ithamore, come near; Come near, my love; come near, thy master’s life, My trusty servant, nay, my second self;<107> For I have now no hope but even in thee, And on that hope my happiness is built. When saw’st thou Abigail?

ITHAMORE. To-day.

BARABAS. With whom?

ITHAMORE. A friar.

BARABAS. A friar! false villain, he hath done the deed.

ITHAMORE. How, sir!

BARABAS. Why, made mine Abigail a nun.

ITHAMORE. That’s no lie; for she sent me for him.

BARABAS. O unhappy day! False, credulous, inconstant Abigail! But let ‘em go: and, Ithamore, from hence Ne’er shall she grieve me more with her disgrace; Ne’er shall she live to inherit aught of mine, Be bless’d of me, nor come within my gates, But perish underneath my bitter curse, Like Cain by Adam for his brother’s death.

ITHAMORE. O master—

BARABAS. Ithamore, entreat not for her; I am mov’d, And she is hateful to my soul and me: And, ‘less<108> thou yield to this that I entreat, I cannot think but that thou hat’st my life.

ITHAMORE. Who, I, master? why, I’ll run to some rock, And throw myself headlong into the sea; Why, I’ll do any thing for your sweet sake.

BARABAS. O trusty Ithamore! no servant, but my friend! I here adopt thee for mine only heir: All that I have is thine when I am dead; And, whilst I live, use half; spend as myself; Here, take my keys,—I’ll give ‘em thee anon; Go buy thee garments; but thou shalt not want: Only know this, that thus thou art to do— But first go fetch me in the pot of rice That for our supper stands upon the fire.

ITHAMORE. I hold my head, my master’s hungry [Aside].—I go, sir. [Exit.]

BARABAS. Thus every villain ambles after wealth, Although he ne’er be richer than in hope:— But, husht!

Re-enter ITHAMORE with the pot.

ITHAMORE. Here ‘tis, master.

BARABAS. Well said,<109> Ithamore! What, hast thou brought The ladle with thee too?

ITHAMORE. Yes, sir; the proverb says,<110> he that eats with the devil had need of a long spoon; I have brought you a ladle.

BARABAS. Very well, Ithamore; then now be secret; And, for thy sake, whom I so dearly love, Now shalt thou see the death of Abigail, That thou mayst freely live to be my heir.

ITHAMORE. Why, master, will you poison her with a mess of rice-porridge? that will preserve life, make her round and plump, and batten<111> more than you are aware.

BARABAS. Ay, but, Ithamore, seest thou this? It is a precious powder that I bought Of an Italian, in Ancona, once, Whose operation is to bind, infect, And poison deeply, yet not appear In forty hours after it is ta’en.

ITHAMORE. How, master?

BARABAS. Thus, Ithamore: This even they use in Malta here,—‘tis call’d Saint Jaques’ Even,—and then, I say, they use To send their alms unto the nunneries: Among the rest, bear this, and set it there: There’s a dark entry where they take it in, Where they must neither see the messenger, Nor make inquiry who hath sent it them.

ITHAMORE. How so?

BARABAS. Belike there is some ceremony in’t. There, Ithamore, must thou go place this pot:<112> Stay; let me spice it first.

ITHAMORE. Pray, do, and let me help you, master. Pray, let me taste first.

BARABAS. Prithee, do.[ITHAMORE tastes.] What say’st thou now?

ITHAMORE. Troth, master, I’m loath such a pot of pottage should be spoiled.

BARABAS. Peace, Ithamore! ‘tis better so than spar’d. [Puts the powder into the pot.] Assure thyself thou shalt have broth by the eye:<113> My purse, my coffer, and myself is thine.

ITHAMORE. Well, master, I go.

BARABAS. Stay; first let me stir it, Ithamore. As fatal be it to her as the draught Of which great Alexander drunk, and died; And with her let it work like Borgia’s wine, Whereof his sire the Pope was poisoned! In few,<114> the blood of Hydra, Lerna’s bane, The juice of hebon,<115> and Cocytus’ breath, And all the poisons of the Stygian pool, Break from the fiery kingdom, and in this Vomit your venom, and envenom her That, like a fiend, hath left her father thus!

ITHAMORE. What a blessing has he given’t! was ever pot of rice-porridge so sauced? [Aside].—What shall I do with it?

BARABAS. O my sweet Ithamore, go set it down; And come again so soon as thou hast done, For I have other business for thee.

ITHAMORE. Here’s a drench to poison a whole stable of Flanders mares: I’ll carry’t to the nuns with a powder.

BARABAS. And the horse-pestilence to boot: away!

ITHAMORE. I am gone: Pay me my wages, for my work is done. [Exit with the pot.]

BARABAS. I’ll pay thee with a vengeance, Ithamore! [Exit.]

Enter FERNEZE,<116> MARTIN DEL BOSCO, KNIGHTS, and BASSO.

FERNEZE. Welcome, great basso:<117> how fares Calymath? What wind drives you thus into Malta-road?

BASSO. The wind that bloweth all the world besides, Desire of gold.