RIBERA. 'T was to pleasure her, Signor Cortese gave me all I lacked To prove my unfamed skill. A savage pride, Matched oddly with my rags, the haughtiness Wherewith I claimed rather than begged my tools, And my quaint aspect, oft she told me since, Won at a glance her faith. Before I left, She guessed my need, and served me meat and wine With her own flower-white hands. The parting grace I craved was granted, that my work might be The portrait of herself. Thou knowest the rest. MARIA. Why did she leave us, father? Oh, how oft I yearn to see her face, to hear her voice, Hushed in an endless silence! Strange that she, Whose rich love beggared our return, should bear Such separation! Though engirdled now By heavenly hosts of saints and seraphim, I cannot fancy it. What! shall her child, Whose lightest sigh reechoed in her heart, Have need of her and cry to her in vain? RIBERA. Now, for God's sake, Maria, speak not thus; Let me not see such tears upon thy cheek. Not unto us it has been given to guess The peace of disembodied souls like hers. The vanishing glimpses that my fancies catch Through heaven's half-opened gates, exalt even me, Poor sinner that I am. And what are these, The painted shadows that make all my life A glory, to the splendor of that light? For thee, my child, has not my doting love Sufficed, at least in part, to fill the breach Of that tremendous void? What dost thou lack? What help, what counsel, what most dear caress? What dost thou covet? What least whim remains Ungratified, because not yet expressed? MARIA. None, none, dear father! Pardon me! Thy love, Generous and wise as tender, shames my power To merit or repay. Fie o my lips! Look if they be not blistered. Let them smooth With contrite kisses the last frown away. We must be young to-night--no wrinkles then! Genius must show immortal as she is. RIBERA. Thou wilt unman me with thy pretty ways. I had forgot the ball. Yea, I grow old; This scanty morning's work has wearied me. Once I had thought it play to dream all day Before my canvas and then dance till dawn, And now must I give o'er and rest at noon. [Rises.] Enter LUCA, ushering in LORENZO, who carries a portfolio. LUCA. Signor Lorenzo. [LORENZO ceremoniously salutes RIBERA and MARIA. Exit LUCA.] LORENZO. Master, I bring my sketch. [Opens his portfolio and hands a sketch to RIBERA.]