Itha. Ten hundred thousand crowns—Master Barabas. [Writing.
Pilia. Write not so submissively, but threatening him.
Itha. Sirrah, Barabas, send me a hundred crowns.
Pilia. Put in two hundred at least.81
Itha. I charge thee send me three hundred by this bearer, and this shall be your warrant; if you do not, no more, but so.
Pilia. Tell him you will confess.
Itha. Otherwise I'll confess all—Vanish, and return in a twinkle.
Pilia. Let me alone; I'll use him in his kind. [Exit Pilia-Borsa.
Itha. Hang him, Jew.
Bell. Now, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap. Where are my maids? provide a running [123] banquet; Send to the merchant, bid him bring me silks,90 Shall Ithamore, my love, go in such rags?