And hide these extreme sorrows from mine eyes:

For only I have toiled to inherit here
The months of vanity and loss of time,
And painful nights, have been appointed

me.

a few. Good Barabas, be patient. Bar. Aye, I pray leave me in my patience. You that were ne'er possessed of wealth, are pleased with want;

But give him liberty at least to mourn,
That in a field amidst his enemies
Doth see his soldiers slain, himself dis-
armed,

And knows no means of his recovery:
Aye, let me sorrow for this sudden chance;
'Tis in the trouble of my spirit I speak;
Great injuries are not so soon forgot.

1 Jew. Come, let us leave him in his ireful mood,

Our words will but increase his ecstasy.
2 Jew. On, then; but trust me 'tis
misery

To see a man in such affliction:
Farewell Barabas !

Bar. Aye, fare you well.

[Exeunt.

Bar. No, Abigail, things past recovery
Are hardly cured with exclamations.
Be silent, daughter, sufferance breeds ease,
And time may yield us an occasion
Which on the sudden cannot serve the turn.
Besides, my girl, think me not all so fond
As negligently to forego so much
Without provision for thyself and me.
Ten thousand portagues, besides great
pearls,

Rich costly jewels, and stones infinite,
Fearing the worst of this before it fell,
I closely hid.

Abig. Where, father?

Bar. In my house, my girl.

Abig. Then shall they ne'er be seen of Barabas:

For they have seized upon thy house and

wares.

See the simplicity of these base slaves,
Who, for the villains have no wit them-
selves,

Think me to be a senseless lump of clay
That will with every water wash to dirt:
No, Barabas is born to better chance,
And framed of finer mould than common

men,

That measure naught but by the present time.

A reaching thought will search his deepest wits,

And cast with cunning for the time to come:
For evils are apt to happen every day-
But whither wends my beauteous Abigail?

Enter Abigail, the Jew's daughter. Oh! what has made my lovely daughter sad?

What, woman, moan not for a little loss: Thy father hath enough in store for thee. Abig. Not for myself, but aged Barabas: Father, for thee lamenteth Abigail :

But I will learn to leave these fruitless tears,

And, urged thereto with my afflictions, With fierce exclaims run to the senatehouse,

And in the senate reprehend them all,

And rent their hearts with tearing of my hair,

Till they reduce the wrongs done to my father.

Must enter in; men generally barred.

Bar. My gold! my gold! and all my wealth is gone.

You partial heavens, have I deserved this plague?

What will you thus oppose me, luckless stars,

To make me desperate in my poverty?
And knowing me impatient in distress,
Think me so mad as I will hang myself,
That I may vanish o'er the earth in air,
And leave no memory that e'er I was.
No, I will live; nor loathe I this my life:
And, since you leave me in the ocean thus
To sink or swim, and put me to my shifts,
I'll rouse my senses and awake myself.
Daughter! I have it: thou perceiv'st the
plight

Wherein these Christians have oppressed

Abig. How, as a nun?

Bar. Aye, daughter, for religion Hides many mischiefs from suspicion. Abig. Aye, but father they will suspect me there.

Bar. Let 'em suspect, but be thou so precise

As they may think it done of holiness. Intreat 'em fair, and give them friendly speech,

And seem to them as if thy sins were great, Till thou hast gotten to be entertained.

Abig. Thus father shall I much dissemble. Bar. Tush! as good dissemble that thou never meant'st,

As first mean truth and then dissemble it,
A counterfeit profession is better
Than unforeseen hypocrisy.

Abig. Well father, say I be entertained, What then shall follow?

Bar. This shall follow then;

There have I hid, close underneath the plank

That runs along the upper chamber floor,
The gold and jewels which I kept for thee.
But here they come; be cunning, Abigail.
Abig. Then father, go with me.
Bar. No, Abigail, in this

It is not necessary I be seen:
For I will seem offended with thee for 't:
Be close, my girl, for this must fetch my
gold.
[They draw back.

Enter two Friars and two Nuns.

I Fri. Sisters, we now are almost at the new-made nunnery.

1 Nun. The better; for we love not to be

seen:

'Tis thirty winters long since some of us
Did stray so far amongst the multitude.

I Fri. But, madam, this house
And waters of this new-made nunnery
Will much delight you.

Nun. It may be so; but who comes here? [Abigail comes forward. Abig. Grave abbess, and you, happy virgins' guide,

Pity the state of a distressèd maid.

Abb. What art thou, daughter?
Abig. The hopeless daughter of a hapless
Jew,

The Jew of Malta, wretched Barabas;
Sometime the owner of a goodly house,
Which they have now turned to a nunnery.
Abb. Well, daughter, say, what is thy
suit with us?

Abig. Fearing the afflictions which my father feels,

Proceed from sin, or want of faith in us,

I'd pass away my life in penitence,
And be a novice in your nunnery,
To make atonement for my labouring soul
I Fri. No doubt, brother, but this pro
ceedeth of the spirit.

2 Fri. Aye, and of a moving spirit too, brother; but come,

Let us intreat she may be entertained. Abb. Well, daughter, we admit you for

nun.

Abig. First let me as a novice learn to frame

My solitary life to your strait laws,
And let me lodge where I was wont to lie,
I do not doubt, by your divine precepts
And mine own industry, but to profit
much.

Bar. As much, I hope, as all I hid is worth.

[Aside. Abb. Come, daughter, follow us. Bar. Why how now, Abigail,

What makest thou amongst these hateful Christians?

1.Fri. Hinder her not, thou man of litt faith,

For she has mortified herself.

Bar. How mortified!

I Fri. And is admitted to the sister hood.

Bar. Child of perdition, and thy father's shame!

What wilt thou do among these hateful

fiends?

I charge thee on my blessing that thou leave

These devils, and their damnèd heresy.
Abig. Father, give me—

[She goes to him. Bar. Nay, back, Abigail, [Whispers to her.]

(And think upon the jewels and the gold, The board is marked thus that covers it.) Away, accursed, from thy father's sight.

I Fri. Barabas, although thou art in mis
belief,

And wilt not see thine own afflictions,
Yet let thy daughter be no longer blind.

Bar. Blind friar, I reck not thy persua sions,

(The board is marked thus that covers it.) For I had rather die, than see her thus. Wilt thou forsake me too in my distress, Seduced daughter? (Go, forget not.) Becomes it Jews to be so credulous? (To-morrow early I'll be at the door.) No, come not at me; if thou wilt be damned,

Forget me, see me not, and so be gone, (Farewell, remember to-morrow morning.)

As great and fair as is the Governor's;
And there in spite of Malta will I dwell:
Having Ferneze's hand, whose heart I'll
have;

Aye, and his son's too, or it shall go hard.
I am not of the tribe of Levi, I,
That can so soon forget an injury.

We Jews can fawn like spaniels when we please:

And when we grin we bite, yet are our looks As innocent and harmless as a lamb's.

I learned in Florence how to kiss my hand, Heave up my shoulders when they call me dog,

And duck as low as any barefoot friar,
Hoping to see them starve upon a stall,
Or else be gathered for in our Synagogue ;
That, when the offering-basin comes to me,
Even for charity I may spit into it.
Here comes Don Lodowick, the Governor's

son,

One that I love for his good father's sake.

Enter Lodowick.

Lod. I hear the wealthy Jew walked this

way:

I'll seek him out, and so insinuate,
That I may have a sight of Abigail;
For Don Mathias tells me she is fair.

Bar. Now will I show myself

To have more of the serpent than the dove; That is more knave than fool.

Lod. Yond' walks the Jew; now for fair Abigail

Bar. Aye, aye, no doubt but she's at your command. [Aside.

Lod. Barabas, thou know'st I am the Governor's son.

Lod. What sparkle does it give without a foil?

Bar. The diamond that I talk of ne'er was foiled:

But when he touches it, he will be foiled : [Aside. Lord Lodowick, it sparkles bright and fair. Lod. Is it square or pointed, pray let me know.

Bar. Pointed it is, good sir-but not for [Aside.

you.

Lod. I like it much the better.
Bar. So do I too.

Lod. How shows it by night?
Bar. Outshines Cynthia's rays:
You'll like it better far o' nights than days.
[A side.

Lod. And what's the price?
Bar. Your life an' if you have it. [Aside.]

We will not jar about the price; come to
Oh, my Lord,
my house

And I will give't your honour-with a vengeance. [Aside.

Lod. No, Barabas, I will deserve it first.
Bar. Good sir,

Your father has deserved it at my hands,
Who, of mere charity and Christian truth,
To bring me to religious purity,
And as it were in catechising sort,
To make me mindful of my mortal sins,
Against my will, and whether I would or no,
Seized all I had, and thrust me out o' doors,
And made my house a place for nuns most
chaste.

Lod. No doubt your soul shall reap the fruit of it.

Bar. Aye, but, my lord, the harvest is far

off: