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THE SPAGNOLETTO.
225
MARIA.
So ! that is well.
Put by the envious brush that separates
Father from daughter. Now you are all mine own.
And now your secret.
RIBERA.
Mine ? T is none of mine ;
T is thine, Maria. John of Austria
Desires our presence at his ball to-night.
MARIA.
Prince John ?
RIBERA.
Ay, girl, Prince John. I looked to see
A haughty joy dance sparkling in thine eyes
And burn upon thy cheek. But what is this ?
Timid and pale, thou droop st thy head abashed
As a poor flower-girl whom a lord accosts.
MARIA.
Forgive me. Sure, t is you Don John desires,
The prince of artists
RIBERA.
Art ! Prate not of art !
Think st thou I move an artist midst his guests ?
