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| Russell Lynes Dimitri Hadzi in Rome 1969 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Catherine Lusurier Portrait of Madame la marquise de Rochambeau ca. 1770 oil on canvas Newport Mansions Preservation Society, Rhode Island |
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| Elaine Lustig Cohen (designer) Sights and Spectacles - Mary McCarthy 1957 offset-lithograph (dust jacket) Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum |
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| Giovanni Battista Lupicini The Muse of Painting ca. 1606 oil on canvas Columbia Museum of Art, South Carolina |
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| Alexandre Lunois Intermission 1894 lithograph National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa |
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| Bernardino Luini Virgin and Child with young St John the Baptist ca. 1515 oil on panel Liechtenstein Museum, Vienna |
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| Maximilien Luce The Foot Bath 1894 oil on canvas Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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| Ambrogio Lorenzetti Presentation in the Temple 1342 tempera on panel Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence |
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| Luis López y Piquer Family of the Count of Cervellón ca. 1846 oil on canvas Museo de Bellas Artes de Valencia, Spain |
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| Alessandro Longhi Portrait of Senator Pisani, Venetian Ambassador to Constantinople ca. 1790 oil on canvas Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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| Pierre Lombard after Anthony van Dyck Elizabeth Brydges, Countess of Castlehaven ca. 1660 engraving Graphische Sammlung ETH Zürich |
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| Henry Liverseege Don Quixote in his Study 1831 watercolor and gouache on paper National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa |
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| Antony Little for Osborne & Little (London) Wilde Carnation 1968 screenprinted wallpaper Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum |
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| Carl Friedrich Lessing Twilight and Owls 1838 drawing Cincinnati Art Museum, Ohio |
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| Saul Leiter Stoplight in Snow 1955 C-print National Gallery of Australia, Canberra |
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| J. Michael Lardizabal Utensils 1993 cyanotype Los Angeles County Museum of Art |
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| Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée Tobias frightened by the Fish ca. 1780 etching Agnes Etherington Art Centre, Kingston, Ontario |
A Canto upon the Death of Eliza
The earely Houres were readie to unlocke
The doore of Morne, to let abroad the Day,
When sad Ocyroe sitting on a rocke,
Hemmed in with teares, not glassing as they say
Shee woont, her damaske beuties (when to play
Shee bent her looser fancie) in the streame,
That sudding on the rocke, would closely seeme
To imitate her whitenesse with his frothy creame.
But hanging from the stone her carefull head,
That shewed (for griefe had made it so to shew)
A stone it selfe, thus onely differed,
That those without, these streames within did flow,
Both ever ranne, yet never lesse did grow,
And tearing from her head her amber haires,
Whose like or none, or onely Phæbus weares,
Shee strowd them on the flood to waite upon her teares.
About her many Nymphes sate weeping by,
That when shee sang were woont to daunce & leape.
And all the grasse that round about did lie,
Hung full of teares, as if that meant to weepe,
Whilst th' undersliding streames did softly creepe,
And clung about the rocke with winding wreath,
To heare a Canto of Elizaes death:
Which thus poore nymph she sang, whilst sorrowe lent her breath.
Tell me ye blushing currols that bunch out,
To cloath with beuteous red your ragged site,
So let the sea-greene mosse curle round about
With soft embrace (as creeping vines doe wyre
Their loved Elmes) your sides in rosie tyre,
So let the ruddie vermeyle of your cheeke
Make staind carnations fresher liveries seeke,
So let your braunched armes grow crooked, smooth & sleeke.
So from your growth late be you rent away,
And hung with silver bels and whistles shrill,
Unto those children be you given to play
Where blest Eliza raignd: so never ill
Betide your canes nor them with breaking spill,
Betide your canes nor them with breaking spill,
Tell me if some uncivill hand should teare
Your branches hence, and place them otherwhere;
Could you still grow, & such fresh crimson ensignes beare?
Tell me sad Philomele that yonder sit'st
Piping thy songs unto the dauncing twig,
And to the waters fall thy musicke fit'st,
So let the friendly prickle never digge
Thy watchfull breast with wound or small or bigge,
Whereon thou lean'st, so let the hissing snake
Sliding with shrinking silence never take
Th' unwarie foote, whilst thou perhaps hangst halfe awake.
So let the loathed lapwing when her nest
Is stolne away, not as shee uses, flie,
Cousening the searcher of his promisd feast,
But widdowd of all hope still Itis crie,
And nought but Itis, Itis, till shee die.
Say sweetest querister of the airie quire
Doth not thy Tereu, Tereu then expire,
When winter robs thy house of all her greene attire?
Tell me ye velvet headed violets
That fringe the crooked banke with gawdie blewe,
So let with comely grace your prettie frets
Be spread, so let a thousand Zephyrs sue
To kisse your willing heads, that seeme t' eschew
Their wanton touch with maiden modestie,
So let the silver dewe but lightly lie
Like little watrie worlds within your azure skie.
So when your blazing leaves are broadly spread
Let wandring nymphes gather you in their lapps,
And send you where Eliza lieth dead,
To strow the sheete that her pale bodie wraps,
Aie me in this I envie your good haps:
Who would not die, there to be buried?
Say if the sunne denie his beames to shedde
Upon your living stalkes, grow you not withered?
Tell me thou wanton brooke, that slip'st away
T' avoid the straggling bankes still flowing cling,
So let thy waters cleanely tribut pay
Unmixt with mudde unto the sea your king,
So never let your streames leave murmuring
Untill they steale by many a secret furt
To kiss those walls that built Elizaes court,
Drie you not when your mother springs are choakt with durt?
Yes you all say, and I say with you all,
Naught without cause of joy can joyous bide,
Then me unhappie nymph whome the dire fall
Of my joyes spring, But there aye me shee cried,
And spake no more, for sorrow speech denied.
And downe into her watrie lodge did goe;
The very waters when shee sunke did showe
With many wrinckled ohs they sympathiz'd her woe.
With many wrinckled ohs they sympathiz'd her woe.
The sunne in mourning cloudes inveloped
Flew fast into the westearne world to tell
Newes of her death. Heaven it selfe sorrowed
With teares that to the earthes danke bosome fell;
But when the next Aurora gan to deale
Handfuls of roses fore the teame of day
A sheapheard drove his flock by chance that way
& made the nymph to dance that mourned yesterday.
& made the nymph to dance that mourned yesterday.
– Giles Fletcher (1603)