The Jew of Malta.
Has humbled her and brought her downe to this:
Tut, she were fitter for a tale of love
Then to be tired out with Orizons:
And better would she farre become a bed
Embraced in a friendly lovers armes,
Then rise at midnight to a solemne masse.
Enter Lodowicke.
Lod.
Why how now Don Mathias, in a dump?
Math.
Beleeve me, Noble Lodowicke, I have seene
The strangest sight, in my opinion,
That ever I beheld.
Lod.
What wast, I prethe?
Math.
A faire young maid scarce 14 yeares of age,
The sweetest flower in Citherea's field,
Cropt from the pleasures of the fruitfull earth,
And strangely metamorphis'd Nun.
Lod.
But say, What was she?
Math.
Why, the rich Jewes daughter.
Lod.
What Barabas, whose goods were lately seiz'd?
Is she so faire?
Math.
And matchlesse beautifull;
As had you seen her 'twould have mov'd your heart,
Though countermin'd with walls of brasse, to love,
Or at the least to pitty.
Lod.
An if she be so faire as you report,
'Twere time well spent to goe and visit her:
How say you, shall we?
Math.
I must and will, Sir; there's no remedy.
Lod.
And so will I too, or it shall goe hard.
Farewell Mathias.
Math.
Farewell Lodowicke.(Exeunt.
Actus
