It is a painter, sir.
Hieronimo.
Bid him come in, and paint some comfort,
For surely there's none lives but painted comfort.
Let him come in; one knows not what may chance:
God's will [it was], that I should set this tree.
But even so masters ungrateful servants rear[225]
From nought, and then they hate them that
Did bring them up.
Enter the Painter.
Painter.
God bless you, sir.
Hieronimo.
Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain?
How, where, or by what means should I be bless'd?]
Isabella.