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.
