Virtue. Fools placed it on my head that knew me not,
And I am proud to wear the scorn of fools.
Fortune. Mourn in that pride and die, all the world hates thee.
Virtue. Not all, I’ll wander once more through the world:
Wisdom I know hath with her blessèd wings
Fled to some bosom: if I meet that breast,
There I’ll erect my temple, and there rest.
Fortune nor Vice shall then e’er have the power
By their loose eyes to entice my paramour.
Then will I cast off this deformity,
And shine in glory, and triumph to see
You conquered at my feet, that tread on me.
Fortune. Virtue begins to quarrel: Vice, farewell.
Vice. Stay, Fortune, whilst within this grove we dwell,
If my angelical and saint-like form
Can win some amorous fool to wanton here,
And taste the fruit of this alluring tree,
Thus shall his saucy brows adornèd be,
To make us laugh. [Makes horns.
Fortune. It will be rare: adieu.
Virtue. Foul, hell-bred fiend, Virtue shall strive with you,
If any be enamoured of thine eyes,
Their love must needs beget deformities.
Men are transformed to beasts, feasting with sin;
But if in spite of thee their souls I win,
To taste this fruit, though thou disguise their head,
Their shapes shall be re-metamorphosèd.
Vice. I dare thee do thy worst.
Virtue. My best I’ll try.
Fort. Fortune shall judge who wins the sovereignty. [Exeunt.