In a windowless room, open to the viewer like a stage, the painter is sitting on a wooden bench in front of his easel. In his framed painting, he is depicting nude figures of five young women gracefully turning to each other. Nature's complaint is that art deprives natural beauty of its models and can never reach the true beauty created by Nature. Following this, Nature confesses to her priest Genius, lamenting that only human beings, favored by her, rebel against the universal order established by God.
Like many a presumptuous fool, A hundred times more than you Might think; mere presumption On my part, such an intention, To forge so great a work of art, Over which I'd but break my heart, So noble and of such high beauty Is that loveliness so worthy; So that howe'er I might labour I could not, by thinking, capture, | Ere I dared to pen a word, aught Of it, despite my hours of thought. And I am weary of thinking thus And so no more will I discuss Her beauty, for in thinking more On her, I know less than before. For God, whose beauty's beyond measure, When He granted such to Nature, Did make of her a fountain bright, Ever-flowing and filled with light, |
In a windowless room, open to the viewer like a stage, the painter is sitting on a wooden bench in front of his easel. In his framed painting, he is depicting nude figures of five young women gracefully turning to each other. Nature's complaint is that art deprives natural beauty of its models and can never reach the true beauty created by Nature. Following this, Nature confesses to her priest Genius, lamenting that only human beings, favored by her, rebel against the universal order established by God.
Like many a presumptuous fool, A hundred times more than you Might think; mere presumption On my part, such an intention, To forge so great a work of art, Over which I'd but break my heart, So noble and of such high beauty Is that loveliness so worthy; So that howe'er I might labour I could not, by thinking, capture, | Ere I dared to pen a word, aught Of it, despite my hours of thought. And I am weary of thinking thus And so no more will I discuss Her beauty, for in thinking more On her, I know less than before. For God, whose beauty's beyond measure, When He granted such to Nature, Did make of her a fountain bright, Ever-flowing and filled with light, |
