The Works of Christopher Marlowe
The Jew of Malta
Act:
3
Scene:
1
Ithimore
O the sweetest face that ever I beheld! I know she is a Curtezane by her attire: now would I give a hundred of the Jewes Crownes that I had such a Concubine.
Well, I have deliver'd the challenge in such sort,
As meet they will, and fighting dye; brave sport.
Act:
3
Scene:
3
Ithimore
Why, was there ever seene such villany,
So neatly plotted, and so well perform'd?
Both held in hand, and flatly both beguil'd.
Ithimore
Oh, Mistresse, ha ha ha.
Ithimore
Oh my master.
Ithimore
Oh Mistris! I have the bravest, gravest, secret, subtil, bottle-nos'd knave to my Master, that ever Gentleman had.
Ithimore
Oh, my master has the bravest policy.
Ithimore
Why, know you not?
Ithimore
Know you not of Mathias and Don Lodowickes disaster?
Ithimore
Why the devil invented a challenge, my master writ it, and I carried it, first to Lodowicke, and imprimis to Mathias.
And then they met, and as the story sayes,
In dolefull wise they ended both their dayes.
Ithimore
Am I Ithimore?
Ithimore
So sure did your father write, and I cary the chalenge.
Ithimore
I pray, mistris, wil you answer me to one question?
Ithimore
A very feeling one; have not the Nuns fine sport with the Fryars now and then?
Ithimore
I will forsooth, Mistris.
Ithimore
When, ducke you?
Act:
3
Scene:
4
Ithimore
But who comes here? Oh Ithimore come neere;
Come neere, my love, come neere, thy masters life,
My trusty servant, nay, my second selfe;
For I have now no hope but even in thee;
And on that hope my happinesse is built:
When saw'st thou Abigall?
Ithimore
To day.
Ithimore
A Fryar.
Ithimore
How, Sir?
Ithimore
That's no Iye, for she sent me for him.
Ithimore
Oh master.
Ithimore
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.
Ithimore
I hold my head my master's hungry: I goe Sir.
Ithimore
Here 'tis, Master.
Ithimore
Yes, Sir, the proverb saies, he that eats with the devil had need of a long spoone. I have brought you a Ladle.
Ithimore
Why, master, wil you poison her with a messe of rice porredge? that wil preserve life, make her round and plump, and batten more then you are aware.
Ithimore
How master?
Ithimore
How so?
Ithimore
Pray doe, and let me help you, master. Pray let me taste first.
Ithimore
Troth master, I'm loth such a pot of pottage should be spoyld.
Ithimore
Well, master, I goe.
Ithimore
What a blessing has he given't? was ever pot of rice porredge so sauc't? what shall I doe with it?
Ithimore
Here's a drench to poyson a whole stable of Flanders mares: I'le carry's to the Nuns with a powder.
Ithimore
I am gone.
Pay me my wages for my worke is done.
