_Lass_. A Painter, faire _Luci[li]a_? Why, the world With all her beautie was by painting made. Looke on the heavens colour'd with golden starres, The firmamentall ground of it all blew: Looke on the ayre where, with a hundred changes, The watry Rain-bow doth imbrace the earth: Looke on the sommer fields adorn'd with flowers,-- How much is natures painting honour'd there? Looke in the Mynes, and on the Easterne shore, Where all our Mettalls and deare Jems are drawne, Thogh faire themselves made better by their foiles: Looke on that little world, the twofold man, Whose fairer parcell is the weaker still, And see what azure vaines in stream-like forme Divide the Rosie beautie of the skin. I speake not of the sundry shapes of beasts, The severall colours of the Elements, Whose mixture shapes the worlds varietie In making all things by their colours knowne. And to conclude, Nature, her selfe divine, In all things she hath made is a meere Painter. [_She kisses her hand_. [_Lu_.] Now by this kisse, th'admirer of thy skill, Thou art well worthie th'onor thou hast given (With so sweet words) to thy eye-ravishing Art, Of which my beauties can deserve no part. _Lass_. From[51] these base Anticks where my hand hath spearst Thy severall parts, if I uniting all Had figur'd there the true _Lucilia_, Then might'st thou justly wonder at mine Art And devout people would from farre repaire, Like Pilgrims, with there dutuous sacrifice, Adoring[52] thee as Regent of their loves. Here, in the Center of this Mary-gold, Like a bright Diamond I enchast thine eye; Here, underneath this little Rosie bush, Thy crimson cheekes peers forth more faire then it; Here _Cupid_ (hanging downe his wings) doth sit, Comparing Cherries to thy Ruby lippes: Here is thy browe, thy haire, thy neck, thy hand, Of purpose all in severall shrowds disper'st, Least ravisht I should dote on mine own worke Or Envy-burning eyes should malice it. _Lu_. No more, my Lord; see, here comes _Haunce_ our man. _Enter Haunce_. _Haunce_. We have the finest Painter here at boord wages that ever made Flowerdelice, and the best bedfellow, too; for I may lie all night tryumphing from corner to corner while he goes to see the Fayries, but I for my part see nothing, but here [sic] a strange noyse sometimes. Well, I am glad we are haunted so with Fairies, for I cannot set a cleane pump down but I find a dollar in it in the morning. See, my Mistresse _Lucilia_, shee's never from him: I pray God he paints no pictures with her; but I hope my fellowe hireling will not be so sawcie. But we have such a wench a comming for you (Lordings) with her woers: A, the finest wench. Wink, wink, deare people, and you be wise, And shut, O shut, your weeping eyes. _Enter_ Cornelia _sola, looking upon the picture of_ Alberdure _in a little Jewell, and singing. Enter the Doctor and the Merchant following and hearkning to her_. THE SONG.