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 on 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.
