Naboth.
I do. It’s not enough.
Jezebel.
Then name your price.
Naboth.
I cannot be buyer and seller both.
Jezebel.
Then I will offer these: a bale of scarlet,
A camel-load of wool, woven or raw,
Three tent-rugs such as desert tribesmen weave,
Three desert-cushions made of coloured leather,
And one sealed roll of linen from the Nile,
The deckings of a house, in fact. With these,
Something to gladden dwellers in the house,
A score of honey, and a man-sized jar
Of olive oil, a measure of fine flour,
A pack of dates and seven porters’ loads
Of matured wine; the feastings of a house.
With these, I offer treasures for your house:
Gums from Arabia to burn as perfumes,
A tusk of ivory two cubits long,
A bar of silver from the mines of Bakht,
A casket made of turkis filled with beryl,
A piece of gold, the size of a man’s hand.
Naboth.
I want no ivory nor gold nor scarlet,
Nor silver bars nor trash nor vanity.