Flung loosely back, and rippling unconfined
In shadowy magnificence below
The slim gold girdle o er the snow-soft gown.
Vested and draped in close-woven stuff of white,
With gold about her throat and waist and wrists,
A stately lily ere the dew of morn
Hath passed away—such was thy mother, child.
MARIA.
"Would I were like her! But what said she, father?
How did she plead for you?
RIBERA.
Ah, cunning child,
I see thy tricks; thou humorest my age,
Knowing how much I love to tell this tale,
Though thou hast heard it half a hundred times.
MARIA.
I find it sweet to hear as you to tell,
Believe me, father.
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,
