Pilia. This shall with me unto the Governor. [Aside to Bellamira.
Bell. And fit it should: but first let's ha' more gold. [Aside. Come, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap.
Itha. Love me little, love me long; let music rumble. Whilst I in thy incony [136] lap do tumble.
Enter Barabas, with a lute, disguised.
Bell. A French musician; come, let's hear your skill?
Bar. Must tuna my lute for sound, twang, twang first.31
Itha. Wilt drink, Frenchman? here's to thee with a—— Pox on this drunken hiccup!
Bar. Gramercy, monsieur.
Bell. Prythee, Pilia-Borsa, bid the fiddler give me the posy in his hat there.
Pilia. Sirrah, you must give my mistress your posy.