Montr. Come, come, our death ne’er ends if conscience bleed.
Both. O miserable, miserable men! [Exeunt Longaville and Montrose.
Fortune. Fortune triumphs at this, yet to appear
All like myself, that which from those I took,
King Athelstane, I will bestow on thee,
And in it the old virtue I infuse:
But, king, take heed how thou my gifts dost use.
England shall ne’er be poor, if England strive
Rather by virtue than by wealth to thrive.
Enter Virtue, crowned: Nymphs and Kings attending on her, crowned with olive branches and laurels; music sounding.
Vice. Virtue? alas good soul, she hides her head.
Virtue. What envious tongue said, “Virtue hides her head?”
Vice. She that will drive thee into banishment.
Fortune. She that hath conquered thee: how dar’st thou come,
Thus tricked in gaudy feathers, and thus guarded
With crownèd kings and Muses, when thy foe
Hath trod thus on thee, and now triumphs so?
Where’s virtuous Ampedo? See, he’s her slave;
For following thee, this recompense they have.
Virtue. Is Ampedo her slave? Why, that’s my glory.
The idiot’s cap I once wore on my head,
Did figure him; those that like him do muffle
Virtue in clouds, and care not how she shine,
I’ll make their glory like to his decline.
He made no use of me, but like a miser,
Locked up his wealth in rusty bars of sloth;
His face was beautiful, but wore a mask,
And in the world’s eyes seemed a blackamoor:
So perish they that so keep Virtue poor.
Vice. Thou art a fool to strive, I am more strong,
And greater than thyself; then, Virtue, fly,
And hide thy face, yield me the victory.