Gottfried Keller - "Die Leute von Seldwyla, Vol. 1"

Frederick A. Ober - "Amerigo Vespucci"

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Hugh Walpole - "The Cathedral"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Vol.I, Narrative, Lyric, and Dramatic

E >> Emma Lazarus >> The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Vol.I, Narrative, Lyric, and Dramatic





FIAMETTA.
Nay, that is my secret.


LUCA.
He must be a poor-souled lad if he will wait till thou hast earned
a dowry.


FIAMETTA.
A poor-souled lad! my good Vicenzo--ah! but no matter; thou knowest
him, Luca, my Lord Lorenzo's page. There!--is he poor, or mean, or
plain, or dull? He claims no dowry, he--but I have my pride, as well
as the great ones.


LUCA.
May the saints preserve thee from such as theirs! I am heartily glad
of thy good fortune. I am not sure whether thou or Lady Marie-Rosa
be the most favored. Well, the end proves all.
[Exeunt.]

Enter on one side ANNICCA and DON TOMMASO, attired for the ball;
on the other side, RIBERA.


RIBERA.
What do ye here, my children? Haste away!
Maria waits you for the ball; folk say
'T will be the bravest show e'er seen in Naples.
I warrant you the Spagnoletto brings
The richest jewels--what say'st thou, my son?


DON TOMMASO.
I who have robbed you of one gem, need scarce
Re-word, sir, how I prize it.


RIBERA.
Why, 't is true.
Robbed me, thou sayst? So hast thou. She was mine--
The balanced beauty of her flesh and spirit,
That was my garland, and I was her all,
Till thou, a stranger, stole her heart's allegiance,
Suborned--Forgive me, I am old, a father,
Whose doting passions blind. I am not jealous,
Believe me, sir. When we Riberas give,
We give without retraction or reserve,
Were it our life-blood. I rejoice with thee
That she is thine; nor am I quite bereft,
I have some treasure still. I do repent
So heartily of my discourteous speech,
That I will crave your leave before I kiss
Your wife's soft palm.


ANNICCA (kissing him repeatedly).
Why, father, what is this?
Can Don Tommaso's wife so soon forget
She is the Spagnoletto's child?


RIBERA.
Enough.
I can bear praise, thou knowest, from all save thee
And my Maria. My grave son, I fear,
Will mock these transports. Pray go in with me.
No one of us but has this night a triumph.
Let us make ready.
[Exeunt.]



ACT II.

SCENE I.

Ball in the Palace of DON JOHN. Dance. DON JOHN and MARIA
together. DON TOMMASO, ANNICCA. LORDS and LADIES, dancing or
promenading.


1st LORD.
Were it not better to withdraw awhile,
After our dance, unto the torch-lit gardens?
The air is fresh and sweet without.


1st LADY.
Nay, signor.
I like this heavy air, rich with warm odors,
The broad, clear light, the many-colored throng.
I might have breathed on mine own balcony
The evening breeze.


1st LORD.
Still at cross purposes.
When will you cease to flout me?


1st LADY.
When I prize
A lover's sigh more dear than mine own pleasure.
See, the Signora Julia passed again.
She is far too pale for so much white, I find.
Donna Aurora--ah, how beautiful!
That spreading ruff, sprinkled with seeds of gold,
Becomes her well. Would you believe it, sir,
Folk say her face is twin to mine--what think you?


1st LORD.
For me, the huge earth holds but one such face.
You know it well.


1St LADY.
The hall is overfilled;
Go we without.
[They pass on.]


2d LADY.
Thrice he hath danced with her.
She is not one of us--her face is strange;
Colored and carven to meet most men's desire--
Is't not, my lord? Certes, it loses naught
For lack of ornament. Pray, ask her name,
If but for my sake.


2d LORD.
I have already asked.
She is the daughter to the Spagnoletto,
Maria-Rosa.


2d LADY.
Ah, I might have guessed.
The form and face are matched with the apparel,
As in a picture. 'T was the master's hand,
I warrant you, arranged with such quaint art,
Such seeming-careless care, the dead, white pearls
Within her odd, bright hair.
[They pass on.]


DON JOHN.
Now hope, now fear
Reigned lord of my wild dreams. One name still sang
Like the repeated strain of some caged bird,
Its sweet, persistent music through my brain.
One vanishing face upon the empty air
Shone forth and faded night and day. And you,
Did you not find me hasty, over-bold?
Nay, tell me all your thought.


MARIA.
You know, my lord,
I am no courtier, and belike my thought
Might prove too rustic for a royal ear.


DON JOHN.
Speak on, speak on!
Though you should rail, your voice would still outsing
Rebeck and mandoline.


MARIA.
Is it not strange?
I knew you not, albeit I might have guessed,
If only from the simple garb of black,
And golden collar, 'midst the motley hues
Of our gay nobles. I know not what besides,
But this first won me. Be not angered, sir;
But, as I looked, I never ranked you higher
Than simple gentleman. I asked your name;
Then, when you Highness stooped to pick my flower,
My lord, that moment was my thought a traitor,
For it had fain discrowned you.


DON JOHN.
May God's angels
Reward such treason. Say me those words again.
Let the rich blush born of that dear confession
Again dye cheek and brow, and fade and melt
Forever, even as then.


MARIA.
We are watched, my lord.
This is no place, no hour, for words like these.


DON JOHN.
When, where then, may we meet?
[They pass on.]



SCENE II.

The Palace Gardens. Interrupted sounds of music and revelry
come though the open windows of the ball-room, seen in the
background. RIBERA, pacing the stage, occasionally pausing
to look in upon the dancers.


RIBERA.
This is revenge. Is she not beautiful,
Ye gods? The beggar's child matched with a prince!
Throb not so high, my heart, 'neath envious eyes
Fixed on thy triumph! Now am I well repaid
For my slow, martyred years. Was I not wrung
by keener tortures than my savage brush,
Though dipped in my heart's blood, might reproduce!
No twisted muscle, no contorted limb,
No agony of flesh, have I yet drawn,
That owed not its suggestion to some pang
Of my pride crucified, my spirit racked,
My entrails gnawed by the blind worm of hate,
Engendered of oppression. That is past,
But not forgotten; though to-night I please
To yield to gentler influence, to own
The strength of beauty and the power of joy,
And welcome gracious phantasies that throng
And hover over me in airy shapes.
The spirits of earth and heaven contend to-night
For mastery within me; ne'er before
Have I been more the Spagnoletto, fired
With noble wrath, with the consuming fever
And fierce delight of vengeance.
From this point
I see her clearly--the auroral face
A-light with smiles, the imperial head upraised;
Her languid hand sways the broad, silken fan,
Whose wing-like movement stirs above her brow
The fine, bright curls, as though warm airs of heaven
Around her breathed. He leads her 'midst the throng.
So, they have gone; but I will follow them,
And watch them from afar.
[Exit.]

Enter from the opposite side DON JOHN and MARIA.


DON JOHN.
I dread to ask
What quivers on my lips. My heart is free,
But thine?


MARIA.
My heart is free, my lord.


DON JOHN.
Thank God!


MARIA.
It never beat less calmly at the sound
Of any voice till now. I laugh to think
This very morn I fancied it had met
Its master.


DON JOHN.
Ah!


MARIA.
Fear naught--a simple boy,
A pupil of my father's.


DON JOHN.
I was mad
To dream it could be otherwise. Forgive me;
I, a mere stranger in they life, am jealous
Of all thy present and thy past.


MARIA.
Listen, my lord;
You shall hear all. What hour, think you, he chose
To urge his cause? The same wherein I learned
Your Highness had commanded for to-night
Our presence. My winged thoughts were flying back
To Count Lodovico's; again I saw you,
My white rose at your lips, your grave eyes fixed
Most frankly, yet most reverently, on mine.
Again my heart sank as I heard the name,
The Prince of Austria; and while I mused,
He spake of love. Oh, I am much to blame!
My mood was soft;--although I promised naught,
I listened, yea, I listened. Good, my lord,
Do you not pity him?


DON JOHN.
Thanks, and thanks again,
For thy confession! Now no spot remains
On the unblemished mirror of my faith.
Since that dear night, I with one only thought
Have gained the sum of knowledge and opinions
Touching thine honored father, with such scraps
As the gross public voice could dole to me
Concerning thine own far-removed, white life.
Thou art, I learn, immured in close seclusion;
Thy father, be it with all reverence said,
Hedges with jealous barriers his treasure;
Whilst thou, most duteous, tenderest of daughters,
Breath'st but for him.


MARIA.
Dear father! Were it so,
'T were simple justice. Ah, if you knew him--
A proud, large, tameless heart. This is the cloister
Where he immures me--Naples' gayest revels;
The only bar wherewith he hedges me
Is his unbounded trust, that leaves me free.
Let us go in; the late night air is chill.


DON JOHN.
Yet one more dance?


MARIA.
You may command, my lord.
[Exeunt.]

Enter RIBERA.


RIBERA.
I lost them in the press. Ah, there they dance
Again together. I would lay my hands
In blessing on that darling, haughty head.
Like the Ribera's child, she bears her honors
As lightly as a flower. Yet there glows
Unwonted lustre in her starry eyes,
And richer beauty blushes on her cheek.
Enough. Now must I strive to fix that form
That haunts my brain--the blind, old Count Camillo,
The Prince's oracle. 'Midst the thick throng
My fancy singled him; white beard, white hair,
Sealed eyes, and brow lit by an inward light.
So will I paint mine Isaac blessing Esau,
While Jacob kneels before him--blind, betrayed
By his own flesh!

As RIBERA stands aside, lost in thought, enter DON JOHN and MARIA.


MARIA.
See the impatient day
Wakes in the east.


DON JOHN.
One moment here, signora,
Breathe we the charm of this enchanted night.
Look where behind yon vines the slow moon sets,
Hidden from us, while every leaf hangs black,
Each tender stalk distinct, each curling edge
Against the silver sky.


MARIA (perceiving RIBERA).
What, father! here?


RIBERA.
Maria!--Ah, my Prince, I crave your pardon.
When thus I muse, 't is but my mind that lives;
Each outward sense is dead. I saw you not,
I heard nor voice nor footstep. Yonder lines
That streak the brightening sky east warn us away.
For all your grace to us, the Spagnoletto
Proffers his thanks to John of Austria.
My daughter, art thou ready?


DON JOHN.
I am bound,
Illustrious signor, rather unto you
And the signora, past all hope of payment.
When may I come to tender my poor homage
To the Sicilian master?


RIBERA.
My lord will jest.
Our house is too much honored when he deigns
O'erstep the threshold. Let your royal pleasure
Alone decide the hour.


DON JOHN.
To-morrow, then.
Or I should say to-day, for dawn is nigh.


RIBERA.
And still we trespass. Be it as you will;
We are your servants.


MARIA.
So, my lord, good-night.
[Exeunt MARIA and RIBERA.]


DON JOHN (alone).
Gods, what a haughty devil rules that man!
As though two equal princes interchanged
Imperial courtesies! The Spagnoletto
Thanks John of Austria! Louis of France
Might so salute may father. By heaven, I know not
What patience or what reverence withheld
My enchafed spirit in bounds of courtesy.
Nay, it was she, mine angel, whose mere aspect
Is balm and blessing. How her love-lit eyes
Burned through my soul! How her soft hand's slight pressure
Tingled along my veins! Oh, she is worthy
A heart' religion! How shall I wear the hours
Ere I may seek her? Lo, I stand and dream,
While my late guests await me. Patience, patience!
[Exeunt.]



SCENE III.

Morning twilight in RIBERA'S Garden. During this scene the day
gradually breaks, and at the close the full light of morning
illuminates the stage. LORENZO.
AUBADE.


LORENZO (sings).
From thy poppied sleep awake;
From they golden dreams arise;
Earth and seas new colors take,
Love-light dawns in rosy skies,
Weird night's fantastic shadows are outworn;
Why tarriest thou, oh, sister to the morn?


Hearken, love! the matin choir
Of birds salutes thee, and with these
Blends the voice of my desire.
Unto no richer promises
Of deeper, dearer, holier love than mine,
Canst thou awaken from they dreams divine.


Lo, thine eastern windows flame,
Brightening with the brightened sky;
Rise, and with thy beauty shame
Morning's regal pageantry,
To thrill and bless as the reviving sun,
For my heart gropes in doubt, though night be gone.


(He speaks.)
Why should I fear? Her soul is pledged to mine,
Albeit she still withheld the binding word.
How long hath been the night! but morn breathes hope.
"I fain were true to you and to myself"--
Did she say thus? or is my fevered brain
The fool of its desires? The world swam;
The blood rang beating in mine ears and roared
Like rushing waters; yet, as through a dream,
I saw her dimly. Surely on her lids
Shone the clear tears. As there's a God in heaven,
She spake those words! My lips retain the touch
Of those soft, snow-cold hands, neither refused
Nor proffered. Such things ARE, nor can they be
Forgotten or foreknown. Yes, she is mine.
But soft! Her casement opes. Oh, joy, 't is she!
Pale, in a cloud of white she stands and drinks
The morning sunlight.


MARIA (above at the window).
Ah, how sweet this air
Kisses my sleepless lids and burning temples.
I am not weary, though I found no rest.
My spirit leaps within me; a new glory
Blesses the dear, familiar scene--ripe orchard,
The same--yet oh, how different! Even I thought
Soft music trembled on the listening air,
As though a harp were touched, blent with low song.
Sure, that was phantasy. I will descend,
Visit my flowers, and see whereon the dew
Hangs heaviest, and what fairest bud hath bloomed
Since yester-eve. Why should I court repose
And dull forgetfulness, while the large earth
Wakes no lesser joy than mine?
[Exit from above.]


LORENZO.
Oh, heart!
How may my breast contain thee, with thy burden
Of too much happiness?

Enter MARIA below; LORENZO springs forward to greet her; she
shrinks back in a sort of terror.


LORENZO.
Good-day, sweet mistress.
May the blithe spirit of this auspicious morn
Become the genius of thy days to come,
Whereof be none less beautiful than this.
Why art thou silent? Does not love inspire
Joyous expression, be it but a sigh,
A song, a smile, a broken word, a cry?
Thou hast not granted me the promised pledge
For which I hunger still. I would confirm
With dear avowals, frequent seals of love,
That which, though sure, I yet can scarce believe.


MARIA.
Somewhat too sure, I think, my lord Lorenzo.
I scarce deemed possible that one so shy
But yester-morn should hold so high a mien,
Claiming what ne'er was given.


LORENZO.
Maria!


MARIA.
Sir,
You are a trifle bold to speak my name
Familiarly as no man, save my father
Or my own brother, dares.


LORENZO.
Ah, now I see
Your jest. You will not seem so lightly won
Without a wooing? You will feign disdain,
Only to make more sweet your rich concession?
Too late--I heard it all. "A new light shines
On the familiar scene." What may that be,
Save the strange splendor of the dawn of love?
Nay, darling, cease to jest, lest my poor heart,
Hanging 'twixt hell and heaven, in earnest break.


MARIA.
Here is no jest, sir, but a fatal error,
Crying for swift correction. You surprise me
With rude impatience, ere I have found time
To con a gentle answer. Pardon me
If any phrase or word or glance of mine
Hath bred or nourished in your heart a hope
That you might win my love. It cannot be.


LORENZO.
A word, a glance! Why, the whole frozen statue
Warmed into life. Surely it was not you.
You must have bribed some angel with false prayers
To wear your semblance--nay, no angel served,
But devilish witchcraft--


MARIA.
Sir, enough, enough!
I hoped to find here peace and solitude.
These lacking, I retire. Farewell.
[Going toward the house.]


LORENZO.
Signora,
I will not rob you of your own. Farewell to you.
[Exit.]


MARIA.
Where have you flown, bright dreams? Has that rude hand
Sufficed to dash to naught your frail creations?
Sad thoughts and humors black now fill my soul.
So his rough foot hath bruised the dewy grass,
And left it sere. Why should his harsh words touch me?
The truth of yesterday is false to-day.
How could I know, dear God! How might I guess
The bitter sweetness, the delicious pain!
A new heart fills my breast, as soft and weak
And melting as a tear, unto its lord;
But kindled with quick courage to endure,
If I need front for him, a world of foes.
If this be love, ah, what a hell is theirs
Who suffer without hope! Even I, who hold
So many dear assurances, who hear
Still ringing in mine ears such sacred vows,
Am haunted with an unaccustomed doubt,
Not wonted to go hand-in-hand with joy.
A gloomy omen greets me with the morn;
I, who recoil from pain, must strike and wound.
What may this mean? Help me, ye saints of heaven
And holy mother, for my strength is naught!

She falls on her knees and bursts into tears. Reenter LORENZO.


LORENZO (aside).
Thank heaven, I came. How have I wrung her soul!
A noble love, forsooth! A blind, brute passion,
That being denied, is swift transformed to hate
No whit more cruel. (To Maria.) Lady!


MARIA (rising hastily).
Signor Lorenzo!
Again what would you with me?


LORENZO.
No such suit
As late I proffered, but your gracious pardon.


MARIA.
Rise, sir, forgiven. I, too, have been to blame,
Although less deeply than you deemed. Forbear
To bind your life. I feel myself unworthy
Of that high station where your thoughts enthrone me.
Yet I dare call myself your friend.
[Offering him her hand, which LORENZO presses to his lips.]


LORENZO.
Thanks, thanks!
Be blessed, and farewell.
[Exit.]

Enter RIBERA, calling.


RIBERA.
Daughter! Maria!


MARIA.
Why, father, I am here (kissing him). Good-day. What will you?


RIBERA.
Darling, no more than what I always will.
Before I enter mine own world removed,
I fain would greet the dearest work of God.
I missed you when I rose. I sought you first
In your own chamber, where the lattice, oped,
Let in the morning splendor and smells
Of the moist garden, with the sound of voices.
I looked, I found you here--but not alone.
What man was that went from you?


MARIA.
Your disciple,
My lord Lorenzo. You remember, father,
How yester-morn I pleaded for his work;
Thus he, through gratitude and--love, hath watched
All night within our garden, while I danced;
And when I came to nurse my flowers--he spake.


RIBERA.
And you?


MARIA.
Am I not still beside you, father?
I will not leave you.


RIBERA.
Ah, mine angel-child!
I cannot choose but dread it, though I wait
Expectant of the hour when you fulfil
Your woman's destiny. You have full freedom;
Yet I rejoice at this reprieve, and thank thee
For thy brave truthfulness. Be ever thus,
Withholding naught from him whose heart reflects
Only thine image. Thou art still my pride,
Even as last night when all eyes gazed thy way,
Thy bearing equal in disdainful grace
To his who courted thee--thy sovereign's son.


MARIA.
Yea, so? And yet it was not pride I felt,
Nor consciousness of self, nor vain delight
In the world's envy;--something more than these,
Far deeper, sweeter--What have I said? My brain
Is dull with sleep. 'T is only now I feel
The weariness of so much pleasure.


RIBERA (rising).
Well,
Go we within. Yes, I am late to work;
We squander precious moments. Thou, go rest,
And waken with fresh roses in they cheeks,
To greet our royal guest.
[Exeunt.]



ACT III.

SCENE I.

The studio of the Spagnoletto. RIBERA before his canvas. LUCA
in attendance.


RIBERA (laying aside his brush).
So! I am weary. Luca, what 's o'clock?


LUCA.
My lord, an hour past noon.


RIBERA.
So late already!
Well, one more morning of such delicate toil
Will make it ready for Madrid, and worthy
Not merely Philip's eyes, but theirs whose glance
Outvalues a king's gaze, my noble friend
Velasquez, and the monkish Zurbaran.
Luca!


LUCA.
My lord.


RIBERA.
Hath the signora risen?


LUCA.
Fiametta passed a brief while since, and left
My lady sleeping.


RIBERA.
Good! she hath found rest;
Poor child, she sadly lacked it. She had known
'Twixt dawn and dawn no respite from emotion;
Her chill hand fluttered like a bird in mine;
Her soft brow burned my lips. Could that boy read
The tokens of an overwearied spirit,
Strained past endurance, he had spared her still,
At any cost of silence. What is such love
To mine, that would outrival Roman heroes--
Watch mine arm crisp and shrivel in quick flame,
Or set a lynx to gnaw my heart away,
To save her from a needle-prick of pain,
Ay, or to please her? At their worth she rates
Her wooers--light as all-embracing air
Or universal sunshine. Luca, go
And tell Fiametta--rather, bid the lass
Hither herself.
[Exit Luca.]
He comes to pay me homage,
As would his royal father, if he pleased
To visit Naples; yet she too shall see him.
She is part of all I think, of all I am;
She is myself, no less than yon bright dream
Fixed in immortal beauty on the canvas.

Enter FIAMETTA.


FIAMETTA.
My lord, you called me?


RIBERA.
When thy mistress wakes,
Array her richly, that she be prepared
To come before the Prince.


FIAMETTA.
Sir, she hath risen,
And only waits me with your lordship's leave,
To cross the street unto St. Francis' church.


RIBERA (musingly).
With such slight escort? Nay, this troubles me.
Only the Strada's width? The saints forbid
That I should thwart her holy exercise!
Myself will go. I cannot. Bid her muffle,
Like our Valencian ladies, her silk mantle
About her face and head.
[At a sign from RIBERA, exit FIAMETTA.]
Yes, God will bless her.
What should I fear? I will make sure her beauty
Is duly masked.
[He goes toward the casement.]
Ay, there she goes--the mantle,
Draped round the stately head, discloses naught
Save the live jewel of the eye. Unless one guessed
From the majestic grace and proud proportions,
She might so pass through the high thoroughfares.
Ah, one thick curl escapes from its black prison.
Alone in Naples, wreathed with rays of gold,
Her crown of light betrays her. So, she's safe!

Enter LUCA.


LUCA.
A noble gentleman of Spain awaits
The master's leave to enter.


RIBERA.
Show him in.
[Exit LUCA. RIBERA draws the curtain before his picture of
"Jacob's Dream."]


RIBERA.
A gentleman of Spain! Perchance the Prince
Sends couriers to herald his approach,
Or craves a longer grace.

Enter LUCA, ushering in DON JOHN unattended, completely enveloped
in a Spanish mantle, which he throws off, his face almost hidden
by a cavalier's hat. He uncovers his head on entering. RIBERA,
repressing a movement of surprise, hastens to greet him and kisses
his hand.


RIBERA.
Welcome, my lord!
I am shamed to think my sovereign's son should wait,
Through a churl's ignorance, without my doors.


DON JOHN.
Dear master, blame him not. I came attended
By one page only. Here I blush to claim
Such honor as depends on outward pomp.
No royalty is here, save the crowned monarch
Of our Sicilian artists. Be it mine
To press with reverent lips my master's hand.


RIBERA.
Your Highness is too gracious; if you glance
Round mine ill-furnished studio, my works
Shall best proclaim me and my poor deserts.
Luca, uplift you hangings.


DON JOHN (seating himself).
Sir, you may sit.


RIBERA (aside, seating himself slowly).
Curse his swollen arrogance! Doth he imagine
I waited leave of him?
(Luca uncovers the picture).


DON JOHN.
Oh, wonderful!
You have bettered here your best. Why, sir, he breathes!
Will not those locked lids ope?--that nerveless hand
Regain the iron strength of sinew mated
With such heroic frame? You have conspired
With Nature to produce a man. Behold,
I chatter foolish speech; for such a marvel
The fittest praise is silence.
[He rises and stands before the picture.]


RIBERA (after a pause).
I am glad
Your highness deigns approve. Lose no more time,
Lest the poor details should repay you not.
Unto your royal home 't will follow you,
Companion, though unworthy, to the treasures
Of the Queen's gallery.


DON JOHN.
'T is another jewel
Set in my father's crown, and, in his name,
I thank you for it.
[RIBERA bows silently. DON JOHN glances around the studio.]


DON JOHN.
There hangs a quaint, strong head,
Though merely sketched. What a marked, cunning leer
Grins on the wide mouth! what a bestial glance!


RIBERA.
'T is but a slight hint for my larger work,
"Bacchus made drunk by Satyrs."


DON JOHN.
Where is that?
I ne'er have seen the painting.


RIBERA.
'T is not in oils,
But etched in aqua-fortis. Luca, fetch down
Yonder portfolio. I can show your Highness
The graven copy.
[LUCA brings forward a large portfolio. RIBERA looks hastily
over the engravings and draws one out which he shows to DON JOHN.]

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