VIRTUE.
What one art thou thus in torn weeds yclad?
Virtue, in price, whom ancient sages had—
Why poorly clad? for fading goods past care—
Why double fac'd? I mark each fortunes rare;
This bridle, what? mind's rages to restrain—
Why bear you tools? I love to take great pain—
Why wings? I teach above the stars to fly—
Why tread your death? I only cannot die.
WYAT.