_Bar._ Thou know'st, and Heaven can witness this is true, That I intend my daughter shall be thine.
_Math._ I, Barabas, or else thou wrong'st me much.
_Bar._ O, Heaven forbid I should have such a thought. Pardon me though I weep: the Governor's son 260 Will, whether I will or no, have Abigail: He sends her letters, bracelets, jewels, rings.
_Bar._ She? No, Mathias, no, but sends them back, And when he comes, she locks herself up fast; Yet through the keyhole will he talk to her, While she runs to the window looking out, When you should come and hale him from the door.
_Bar._ Even now as I came home, he slipt me in, 270 And I am sure he is with Abigail.
_Bar._ Not for all Malta, therefore sheathe your sword; If you love me, no quarrels in my house; But steal you in, and seem to see him not; I'll give him such a warning ere he goes As he shall have small hopes of Abigail. Away, for here they come.
_Math._ What, hand in hand! I cannot suffer this.
_Bar._ Mathias, as thou lovest me, not a word. 280
_Math._ Well, let it pass, another time shall serve. [_Exit._ _Lod._ Barabas, is not that the widow's son?
_Bar._ I, and take heed, for he hath sworn your death.
_Lod._ My death? what, is the base-born peasant mad?
_Bar._ No, no, but happily he stands in fear Of that which you, I think, ne'er dream upon, My daughter here, a paltry silly girl.
_Bar._ Doth she not with her smiling answer you?
_Abig._ He has my heart; I smile against my will. [_Aside._ 290
_Lod._ Barabas, thou know'st I've loved thy daughter long.
_Bar._ And so has she done you, even from a child.
_Lod._ And now I can no longer hold my mind.
_Bar._ Nor I the affection that I bear to you.
_Lod._ This is thy diamond, tell me shall I have it?
_Bar._ Win it, and wear it, it is yet unsoiled. O! but I know your lordship would disdain To marry with the daughter of a Jew; And yet I'll give her many a golden cross[75] With Christian posies round about the ring. 300
_Lod._ Tis not thy wealth, but her that I esteem. Yet crave I thy consent.
_Bar._ And mine you have, yet let me talk to her.-- This offspring of Cain, this Jebusite, That never tasted of the Passover, Nor e'er shall see the land of Canaan, Nor our Messias that is yet to come; This gentle maggot, Lodowick, I mean, Must be deluded: let him have thy hand, But keep thy heart till Don Mathias comes. [_Aside._ 310