Bar. Very well, Ithamore, then now be secret;61 And for thy sake, whom I so dearly love, Now shalt thou see the death of Abigail, That thou may'st freely live to be my heir.
Itha. Why, master, will you poison her with a mess of rice porridge? that will preserve life, make her round and plump, and batten more than you are aware.
Bar. I, but, Ithamore, seest thou this? It is a precious powder that I bought Of an Italian, in Ancona, once,70 Whose operation is to bind, infect, And poison deeply, yet not appear In forty hours after it is ta'en.
Itha. How, master?
Bar. Thus, Ithamore. This even they use in Malta here,—'tis called Saint Jacques' 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,80 Where they must neither see the messenger, Nor make inquiry who hath sent it them.
Itha. How so?
Bar. Belike there is some ceremony in't. There, Ithamore, must thou go place this pot! [97] Stay, let me spice it first.
Itha. Pray do, and let me help you, master. Pray let me taste first.
Bar. Prythee do: what say'st thou now?
Itha. Troth, master, I'm loth such a pot of pottage should be spoiled.90