Sweet mother, let me sketch thee with thy babe:
So rare a picture should not pass away
With the brief moment which it illustrates.
Maria. Art thou a painter too, Sir Traveler?
Where be thy brush and colors?
Raphael. Ah, 'tis true,
Naught have I with me. What is this? 'twill serve
My purpose.
Maria. 'Tis the cover of a cask,
Made of the very oak whereof I spake: