Enter Luca, ushering in Lorenzo, who carries a portfolio.
LUCA.
Signor Lorenzo.
[Lorenzo ceremoniously salutes Ribera and Maria. Exit Luca.
LORENZO.
Master, I bring my sketch.
[Opens his portfolio and hands a sketch to {{sc|Ribera}.
RIBERA (after a pause).
Humph! the design is not so ill-conceived;
I note some progress; but your drawing s bad—
Yes, bad, sir. Mark you how this leg hangs limp,
As though devoid of life; these hands seem clenched,
Not loosely clasped, as you intended them.
[He takes his pencil and makes a few strokes.
Thus should it stand—a single line will mend.
And here, what’s this? Why, ’t is a sloven’s work.
You dance too many nights away, young gallant.
You shirk close labor as do all your mates.
You think to win with service frivolous,
Snatched twixt your cups, or set between two kisses,
The favor of the mistress of the world.
LORENZO.
Your pardon, master, but you do me wrong.
