MATHIAS. What, is he gone unto my mother?

BARABAS. Nay, if you will, stay till she comes herself.

MATHIAS. I cannot stay; for, if my mother come,
She'll die with grief.
[Exit.]

ABIGAIL. I cannot take my leave of him for tears.
Father, why have you thus incens'd them both?

BARABAS. What's that to thee?

ABIGAIL. I'll make 'em friends again.

BARABAS.
You'll make 'em friends! are there not Jews enow in Malta,
But thou must dote upon a Christian?

ABIGAIL. I will have Don Mathias; he is my love.

BARABAS. Yes, you shall have him.--Go, put her in.

ITHAMORE. Ay, I'll put her in.
[Puts in ABIGAIL.]

BARABAS. Now tell me, Ithamore, how lik'st thou this?

ITHAMORE. Faith, master, I think by this