Enter Lodowick.
Lod. Why, how now, Don Mathias! in a dump?370
Math. Believe me, noble Lodowick, I have seen The strangest sight, in my opinion, That ever I beheld.
Lod. What was't, I prythee?
Math. A fair young maid, scarce fourteen years of age, The sweetest flower in Cytherea's field, Cropt from the pleasures of the fruitful earth, And strangely metamorphos'd to a nun.
Lod. But say, what was she?
Math. Why, the rich Jew's daughter.
Lod. What, Barabas, whose goods were lately seized? Is she so fair?
Math. And matchless beautiful;380 As had you seen her 'twould have moved your heart, Though countermined with walls of brass, to love, Or at the least to pity.
Lod. And if she be so fair as you report, 'Twere time well spent to go and visit her: How say you, shall we?