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 loath 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 me:
Be rul'd by me, for in extremity

We ought to make bar of no policy.

ABIG. Father, whate'er it be to injure them

That have so manifestly wronged us,

What will not Abigail attempt?

BAR. Why, so; then thus, thou told'st me they have turn'd my house

Into a nunnery, and some nuns are there.

ABIG. I did.

BAR. Then, Abigail, there must my girl Intreat the abbess to be entertain'd.

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 entertain'd.

ABIG. Thus father shall I much dissemble.

BAR. Tush! as good dissemble that thou never mean'st,

As first mean truth and then dissemble it,

A counterfeit profession is better

Than unseen hypocrisy.

ABIG. Well father, say I be entertain'd, 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.
Enter three 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. 1 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?

ABIG. Grave abbess, and you, happy virgins guide,

Pity the state of a distressed maid.

VOL. I.

14

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 turn'd 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.

1 FRI. No doubt, brother, but this proceedeth of the spirit.

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

Let us intreat she may be entertain❜d.

ABB. Well, daughter, we admit you for a 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 mak'st thou Amongst these hateful Christians?

1 FRI. Hinder her not, thou man of little faith, For she has mortified herself.

BAR. How, mortified!

1 FRI. And is admitted to the sisterhood.

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 damned heresy.

[She goes to him.

ABIG. Father, give me-
BAR. [Whispers to her.] Nay, back, Abigail,
And think upon the jewels and the gold,
The board is marked thus that covers it.
Away accursed from thy father's sight.

1 FRI. Barabas, although thou art in misbelief,
And wilt not see thine own afflictions,
Yet let thy daughter be no longer blind.

BAR. Blind friar, I reck not thy persuasions, (The board is marked thus † that covers it,)

[Aside to his daughter.

For I had rather die, than see her thus.

Wilt thou forsake me too in my distress,

Seduced daughter? (Go, forget not.) [Aside to her. Becomes it Jews to be so credulous?

(To-morrow early I'll be at the door.) [Aside to her. No, come not at me, if thou wilt be damn'd,

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

Enter MATHIAS.

[Aside.

MATH. Who's this? fair Abigail, the rich Jew's

daughter

Become a nun, her father's sudden fall

Has humbled her and brought her down to this:

Tut, she were fitter for a tale of love,
Than to be tired out with orisons:
And better would she far become a bed,
Embraced in a friendly lover's arms,
Than rise at midnight to a solemn mass.
Enter LODOWICK.

LOD. Why, how now, Don Mathias in a dump? MATH. Believe me, noble Lodowick, I have seen The strangest sight, in my opinion,

That ever I beheld.

LOD. What was't, I pry'thee?

MATH. A fair young maid, scarce fourteen years of age,

The sweetest flower in Cytherea's field,

Cropt from the pleasures of the fruitful earth,
And strangely metamorphos'd nun.

LOD. But say, what was she?

MATH. Why, the rich Jew's daughter.

LOD. What, Barabas, whose goods were lately seiz'd?

Is she so fair?

MATH. And matchless beautiful;

As had you seen her 'twould have mov'd your heart,

Though countermin'd with walls of brass, to love, Or at the least to pity.

LOD. And if she be so fair as you report, 'Twere time well spent to go and visit her: How say you, shall we?

MATH. I must and will, sir, there's no remedy.