Truth. Burned me.
Jupiter. Burned you?
Truth. Burned me in the market-place. And, but for my peculiar property of reviving from my ashes, I should not be here now. Upon reconsolidating myself, I felt in such a heat that I was fain to repair to the bottom of the nearest well. Finding myself more comfortable there than I had ever yet been on earth, I have come to ask permission to remain.
Jupiter. It does not appear to me, daughter, that the mission you have undertaken on behalf of mankind can be efficiently discharged at the bottom of a well.
Truth. No, father, nor in the middle of a fire either.
Jupiter. I fear that you are too plain and downright in your dealings with men, and deter where you ought to allure.
Truth. I were not Truth, else, but Flattery. My nature is a mirror’s—to exhibit reality with plainness and faithfulness.
Jupiter. It is no less the nature of man to shatter every mirror that does not exhibit to him what he wishes to behold.
Truth. Let me, therefore, return to my well, and let him who wishes to behold me, if such there be, repair to the brink and look down.
Jupiter. No, daughter, you shall not return to your well. I have already perceived that you are not of yourself sufficient for the office I have assigned to you, and I am about to provide you with two auxiliaries. You are Truth. Tell me how this one appears to you.