Gom. Alack my poor knave.
Val. The confession
The Moor made 't seems was truth.
Nor. Marry was it Sir; the only truth that ever issued out of hell, which her black jawes resemble; a plague o' your bacon-face, you must be giving drinks with a vengeance; ah thou branded bitch: do' ye stare goggles, I hope to make winter-boots o' thy hide yet, she fears not damning: hell fire cannot parch her blacker than she is: d' ye grin, chimney-sweeper.
Ori. What is't Miranda?
Mir. That you would please Lucinda might attend you.
Col. That suit Sir, I consent not to.
Luc. My husband?
My dearest Angelo?
Nor. More Jiggam-bobs; is not this the fellow that swom
Like a duck to th' shore in our sea-service?
Col. The very same, do not you know me now, Sir,
My name is Angelo, though Colonna vail'd it,
Your Countrey-man and kinsman born in Florence,
Who from the neighbor-Island here of Goza
Was captive led, in that unfortunate day
When the Turk bore with him three thousand souls;
Since in Constantinople have I liv'd
Where I beheld this Turkish Damsel first.
A tedious suitor was I for her love,
And pittying such a beauteous case should hide
A soul prophan'd with infidelity,
I labour'd her conversion with my love,
And doubly won her; to fair faith her soul
She first betroth'd, and then her faith to me,
But fearful there to consummate this contract
We fled, and in that flight were ta'en again
By those same Gallies, 'fore Valetta fought.
Since in your service I attended her,
Where, what I saw, and heard, hath joy'd me more
Than all my past afflictions griev'd before.
Val. Wonders crown wonders: take thy wife Miranda.
Be henceforth call'd our Malta's better Angel,
And thou her evil Mountferrat.