And now my hand is raised to strike a wretch who mocks at me; he is a painter, of some talent, so, of course, you take him under your protection.

Then, in a moment, your inventive genius devises a praying sister.

Well, there is in that something which might indeed mollify me.

But you would betray Bassianus ten times over to save an artist.

And then, how my mother would fly to show her gratitude to the man who could quell her furious son! Your mother!--But I only squint when it suits me.