Han. Will you have a stoole, sir?
Moth. I, and I thanke you too, sir.
Flo. Hath this young Gentleman such skill in drawing?
Alber. Many great maisters thinke him (for his yeares) Exceeding cunning.
Cass. Now, sir, what thinke you?
Moth. My Lord, I thinke more Art is shaddowed heere
Then any man in Germanie can shew
Except Earle Lassingbergh; and (in my conceipt)
This work was never wrought without his hand.
Flo. Earle Lassingbergh! Aye me, my jealous thoughts Suspect a mischiefe which I must prevent. Haunce, call Lucilia and the Painter strait, Bid them come both t'attend us at our feast.— Is not your Grace yet wearie of this object? Ile shew your Lordship things more woorth the sight Both for their substance and their curious Art.
Alber. Thankes, good sir Flores.
Flo. See, then, (my Lord) this Aggat that containes
The image of that Goddesse and her sonne,
Whom auncients held the Soveraignes of Love;
See naturally wrought out of the stone
(Besides the perfect shape of every limme,
Besides the wondrous life of her bright haire)
A waving mantle of celestiall blew
Imbroydering it selfe with flaming Starres.
Alber. Most excellent: and see besides (my Lords) How Cupids wings do spring out of the stone As if they needed not the helpe of Art.