All patience I have sat till you should turn
And beckon me. The rosy angels breathe
Upon the canvas ; I might sit till night,
And, if I spake not, you would never glance
From their celestial faces. Dear my father,
Your brow is moist, and yet your hands are ice ;
Your very eyes are tired pray, rest awhile.
The Spagnoletto need no longer toil
As in the streets of Rome for beggars fare ;
Now princes bide his pleasure.
BIBERA (throws aside his brush and palette).
Ah, Maria,
Thou speak st in season. Let me ne er forget
Those days of degradation, when I starved
Before the gates of palaces. The germs
Stirred then within me of the perfect fruits
Wherewith my hands have since enriched God’s world.
Vengeance I vowed for every moment s sting
Vengeance on wealth, rank, station, fortune, genius.
See, while I paint, all else escapes my sense,
Save this bright throng of phantasies that press
Upon my brain, each claiming from my hand
Its immortality. But thou, my child,
Remind st me of mine oath, my sacred pride,
The eternal hatred lodged within my breast.
Philip of Spain shall wait. I will not deign
To add to-day the final touch of life
Unto this masterpiece.
