Giorgione ! GiorgioneIt is you ? Your word came to me , In San Lazzario where I labored late , And shakes my troubled heart . You will not do this ! How my son ! her picture ! as a wanton 's ! My son ! And to what end ? The deeds of wounded pride and love Work not so , but fall back upon the doer — Or on some other . Nor have , Ever , to heed me ! as Aretino , Who turns your praise to Titian , has told . For your wild will runs ever without curb , And I who reared you , as my very own , Must pay the fall . And the piety I would have won you to in the past days Is wasted . The Madonnas I painted with a heart inspired of Heaven You paint with pride . Until A girl whom you had fixed your heart upon With boundless folly , you who should have lived With but one passion — that of brain and brush — Until she —— This Isotta —— So . And most strange . Because she is a woman — whom you tempted , Tho with all trust to wed her — and you know not Whether her going was of shamelessness . Giorgione Or whether she may not yet return , today , And with a heart that is a nymph 's , a soul That is a nun 's , Beguile me back to doting ? Whether she may not — With that body God Might once , deceived , have moulded angels after —? Then flaunt her thralling of me to the world , Whose ready lips should laugh where'er we went And whisper , “ Isotta , there ! Giorgione 's mistress ! Who makes a mocking of him ? ” Never ! never ! Only your unrelenting brain would think it . For this I know of her , that tho she has Deserted you for what must seem to be Only a new-found passion — Yet is she womanly , and did you give her , As now you mean , to avid lusting eyes , Life would be smitten from her . And then from you , repentant of her fate ? No , no , my son , I have not seen you rise , A planet from the sea , the world 's first painter , To set in this : You owe my fathering more . And listen , I have brought to you a way Of laurels for forgetting . I have come With a commission from the Signoria , Which names you the chief glory of this city And votes you proud permission to adorn San Marco 's highest altar with perfection . Your ways have ever been the ways of wounding . Giorgione ! you have sent for them ? GiorgioneWhoever seeks my door is bidden — all ! Then , O my son , it is a premonition , A pall against this purpose ! that you may Not let these ribald two — Aretino , this poet and depraver , And Titian snared within his pagan senses , Enter and gaze upon .... O boy , you will not ! Despoil the picture , Scatter it to the seas , And vow never again to paint another , Tho that would break my heart , but promise me —— Aretino !... Aretino ! Ah !... My son !