RIBERA. Humph! the design is not so ill-conceived; I note some progress; but your drawing's bad-- Yes, bad, sir. Mark you how this leg hangs limp, As though devoid of life; these hands seem clenched, Not loosely clasped, as you intended them. [He takes his pencil and makes a few strokes. Thus should it stand--a single line will mend. And here, what's this? Why, 't is a sloven's work. You dance too many nights away, young gallant. You shirk close labor as do all your mates. You think to win with service frivolous, Snatched 'twixt your cups, or set between two kisses, The favor of the mistress of the world. LORENZO. Your pardon, master, but you do me wrong. Mayhap I lack the gift. Alas, I fear it! But not the patience, not the energy Of earnest, indefatigable toil, That help to make the artist. RIBERA. 'S death! He dares Belie me, and deny the testimony Of his own handiwork, whose every line Betrays a sluggard soul, an indolent will, A brain that's bred to idleness. So be it! Master Lorenzo tells the Spagnoletto His own defects and qualities! 'T were best He find another teacher competent To guide so apt, so diligent a scholar. MARIA. Dear father, what hath given thee offence? Cast but another glance upon the sketch; Surely it hath some grace, some charm, some promise. RIBERA. Daughter, stand by! I know these insolent slips Of young nobility; they lack the stuff That makes us artists. What! to answer me! When next I drop a hint as to his colors, The lengthening or the shortening of a stroke, He'll bandy words with me about his error, To prove himself the master. LORENZO. If my defect Be an hereditary grain i' the blood, Even as you say, I must abide by it; But if patrician habits more than birth Beget such faults, then may I dare to hope. Not mine, I knew, I felt, to clear new paths, To win new kingdoms; yet were I content With such achievement as a strenuous will, A firm endeavor, unfaltering love, And an unwearying spirit might attain. Cast me not lightly back. Banish me not From this, my home of hope, of inspiration! MARIA. What, my ungentle father! Will you hear, And leave this worthy signor's suit unanswered? RIBERA. Well, he may bide. Sir, I will speak with you Anon upon this work. I judged in haste. Yea, it hath merit. I am weary now; To-morrow I shall be in fitter mood To give you certain hints. [LORENZO bows his thanks and advances to address MARIA. RIBERA silences and dismisses him with a wave of the hand. Exit LORENZO.]