Lu.  You paint your flattering words, [Lord] Lassinbergh,
Making a curious pensill of your tongue;
And that faire artificiall hand of yours
Were fitter to have painted heavens faire storie
Then here to worke on Antickes and on me. 
Thus for my sake you (of a noble Earle)
Are glad to be a mercinary Painter.

Lass.  A Painter, faire Luci[li]a?  Why, the world
With all her beautie was by painting made. 
Looke on the heavens colour’d with golden starres,
The firmamentall ground of it all blew: 
Looke on the ayre where, with a hundred changes,
The watry Rain-bow doth imbrace the earth: 
Looke on the sommer fields adorn’d with flowers,—­
How much is natures painting honour’d there? 
Looke in the Mynes, and on the Easterne shore,
Where all our Mettalls and deare Jems are drawne,
Thogh faire themselves made better by their foiles: 
Looke on that little world, the twofold man,
Whose fairer parcell is the weaker still,
And see what azure vaines in stream-like forme
Divide the Rosie beautie of the skin. 
I speake not of the sundry shapes of beasts,
The severall colours of the Elements,
Whose mixture shapes the worlds varietie
In making all things by their colours knowne. 
And to conclude, Nature, her selfe divine,
In all things she hath made is a meere Painter.

[She kisses her hand.

[Lu.] Now by this kisse, th’admirer of thy skill,
Thou art well worthie th’onor thou hast given
(With so sweet words) to thy eye-ravishing Art,
Of which my beauties can deserve no part.

Lass.  From[51] these base Anticks where my hand hath spearst
Thy severall parts, if I uniting all
Had figur’d there the true Lucilia,
Then might’st thou justly wonder at mine Art
And devout people would from farre repaire,
Like Pilgrims, with there dutuous sacrifice,
Adoring[52] thee as Regent of their loves. 
Here, in the Center of this Mary-gold,
Like a bright Diamond I enchast thine eye;
Here, underneath this little Rosie bush,
Thy crimson cheekes peers forth more faire then it;
Here Cupid (hanging downe his wings) doth sit,
Comparing Cherries to thy Ruby lippes: 
Here is thy browe, thy haire, thy neck, thy hand,
Of purpose all in severall shrowds disper’st,
Least ravisht I should dote on mine own worke
Or Envy-burning eyes should malice it.

Lu.  No more, my Lord; see, here comes Haunce our man.

    Enter Haunce.

Haunce.  We have the finest Painter here at boord wages that ever made Flowerdelice, and the best bedfellow, too; for I may lie all night tryumphing from corner to corner while he goes to see the Fayries, but I for my part see nothing, but here [sic] a strange noyse sometimes.  Well, I am glad we are haunted so with Fairies, for I cannot set a cleane pump down but I find a dollar in it in the morning.  See, my Mistresse Lucilia, shee’s never from him:  I pray God he paints no pictures with her; but I hope my fellowe hireling will not be so sawcie.  But we have such a wench a comming for you (Lordings) with her woers:  A, the finest wench.