_Abig._ Hard-hearted father, unkind Barabas, Was this the pursuit of thy policy! To make me show them favour severally, That by my favour they should both be slain? Admit thou lov'dst not Lodowick for his sire,[89] Yet Don Mathias ne'er offended thee: But thou wert set upon extreme revenge, Because the Prior[90] dispossessed thee once, And could'st not 'venge it, but upon his son; 50 Nor on his son, but by Mathias' means; Nor on Mathias, but by murdering me. But I perceive there is no love on earth, Pity in Jews, or piety in Turks. But here comes cursed Ithamore, with the friar. _Enter_ ITHAMORE _and_ FRIAR JACOMO. _F. Jac._ _Virgo, salve._ _Itha._ When! duck you![91] _Abig._ Welcome, grave friar; Ithamore begone. [_Exit_ ITHAMORE. Know, holy sir, I am bold to solicit thee. _F. Jac._ Wherein? 60 _Abig._ To get me be admitted for a nun. _F. Jac._ Why, Abigail, it is not yet long since That I did labour thy admission, And then thou did'st not like that holy life. _Abig._ Then were my thoughts so frail and unconfirmed, And I was chained to follies of the world: But now experience, purchasèd with grief, Has made me see the difference of things. My sinful soul, alas, hath paced too long The fatal labyrinth of misbelief, 70 Far from the sun that gives eternal life. _F. Jac._ Who taught thee this? _Abig._ The abbess of the house, Whose zealous admonition I embrace: O, therefore, Jacomo, let me be one, Although unworthy, of that sisterhood. _F. Jac._ Abigail, I will, but see thou change no more, For that will be most heavy to thy soul. _Abig._ That was my father's fault. _F. Jac._ Thy father's! how? 80 _Abig._ Nay, you shall pardon me.--O Barabas, Though thou deservest hardly at my hands, Yet never shall these lips bewray thy life. [_Aside._ _F. Jac._ Come, shall we go? _Abig._ My duty waits on you. [_Exeunt._ SCENE IV. _Enter_[92] BARABAS, _reading a letter._ _Bar._ What, Abigail become a nun again! False and unkind; what, hast thou lost thy father? And all unknown, and unconstrained of me, Art thou again got to the nunnery? Now here she writes, and wills me to repent. Repentance! _Spurca!_ what pretendeth[93] this? I fear she knows--'tis so--of my device In Don Mathias' and Lodovico's deaths: If so, 'tis time that it be seen into: For she that varies from me in belief 10 Gives great presumption that she loves me not; Or loving, doth dislike of something done. But who comes here? _Enter_ ITHAMORE.