[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, 

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