SCENE III.--_A Wood in Cyprus.

_Music sounds. Enter_ VICE _with a gilded face, and horns on her head; her garments long, painted before with silver half-moons, increasing by little and little till they come to the full; while in the midst of them is written in capital letters, “~Crescit Eundo~.” Behind her garments are painted with fools’ faces and heads; and in the midst is written, “~Ha, Ha, He~.” She, and others wearing gilded vizards and attired like devils, bring out a fair tree of gold with apples on it._

_After her comes_ VIRTUE, _with a coxcomb on her head, and her attire all in white before; about the middle is written “~Sibi sapit~.” Her attire behind is painted with crowns and laurel garlands, stuck full of stars held by hands thrust out of bright clouds, and among them is written, “~Dominabitur astris~.” She and other nymphs, all in white with coxcombs on their heads, bring a tree with green and withered leaves mingled together, and with little fruit on it._

_After her comes_ FORTUNE, _with two ~Nymphs~, one bearing her wheel, another her globe_.

_And last, the ~Priest~._

_Fortune._ You ministers of Virtue, Vice, and Fortune, Tear off this upper garment of the earth, And in her naked bosom stick these trees.

_Virtue._ How many kingdoms have I measured, Only to find a climate, apt to cherish These withering branches? But no ground can prove So happy; ay me, none do Virtue love. I’ll try this soil; if here I likewise fade, To Heaven I’ll fly, from whence I took my birth, And tell the Gods, I am banished from the earth.

_Vice._ Virtue, I am sworn thy foe: if there thou plant, Here, opposite to thine, my tree shall flourish, And as the running wood-bine spreads her arms, To choke thy withering boughs in their embrace, I’ll drive thee from this world: were Virtue fled, Vice as an angel should be honourèd.

_Fortune._ Servants of this bright devil and that poor saint, Apply your task whilst you are labouring: To make your pains seem short our priest shall sing.

[_Whilst the ~Priest~ sings, the rest set the trees into the earth._

SONG.

Virtue’s branches wither, Virtue pines, O pity, pity, and alack the time, Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines, Her gilded boughs above the cedar climb. Vice hath golden cheeks, O pity, pity, She in every land doth monarchize. Virtue is exiled from every city, Virtue is a fool, Vice only wise. O pity, pity, Virtue weeping dies. Vice laughs to see her faint,--alack the time. This sinks; with painted wings the other flies: Alack that best should fall, and bad should climb. O pity, pity, pity, mourn, not sing, Vice is a saint, Virtue an underling. Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines, Virtue’s branches wither, Virtue pines.

_Fortune._ Flourish or wither, Fortune cares not which, In either’s fall or height our eminence Shines equal to the sun: the Queen of chance Both virtuous souls and vicious doth advance. These shadows of yourselves shall, like yourselves, Strive to make men enamoured of their beauties; This grove shall be our temple, and henceforth Be consecrated to our deities.

_Virtue._ How few will come and kneel at Virtue’s shrine?

_Vice._ This contents Virtue, that she is called divine.

_Fortune._ Poor Virtue, Fortune grieves to see thy looks Want cunning to entice: why hang these leaves, As loose as autumn’s hair which every wind In mockery blows from his rotten brows? Why like a drunkard art thou pointed at? Why is this motley-scorn[364] set on thy head? Why stands thy court wide open, but none in it? Why are the crystal pavements of thy temple, Not worn, not trod upon? All is for this, Because thy pride is to wear base attire, Because thine eyes flame not with amorous fire.

[364] _i.e._ The fool’s cap.

_Virtue._ Virtue is fairest in a poor array.

_Fortune._ Poor fool, ’tis not this badge of purity, Nor _Sibi sapit_, painted on thy breast, Allures mortality to seek thy love. No: now the great wheel of thy globe hath run, And met this first point of creation. On crutches went this world but yesterday, Now it lies bed-rid, and is grown so old, That it’s grown young; for ’tis a child again, A childish soul it hath, ’tis a mere fool: And fools and children are well pleased with toys. So must this world, with shows it must be pleased, Then, Virtue, buy a golden face like Vice, And hang thy bosom full of silver moons, To tell the credulous world, As those increase, As the bright moon swells in her pearlèd sphere, So wealth and pleasures them to Heaven shall rear.

_Virtue._ Virtue abhors to wear a borrowed face.

_Vice._ Why hast thou borrowed, then, that idiot’s hood?

_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._

ACT THE SECOND

_Enter ~Chorus~._

Chorus. The world to the circumference of Heaven Is as a small point in geometry, Whose greatness is so little, that a less Cannot be made: into that narrow room, Your quick imaginations we must charm, To turn that world: and turned, again to part it Into large kingdoms, and within one moment To carry Fortunatus on the wings Of active thought, many a thousand miles. Suppose then, since you last beheld him here, That you have sailed with him upon the seas, And leapt with him upon the Asian shores, Been feasted with him in the Tartar’s palace, And all the courts of each barbarian king: From whence being called by some unlucky star,-- For happiness never continues long, Help me to bring him back to Arragon, Where for his pride--riches make all men proud-- On slight quarrel, by a covetous Earl, Fortune’s dear minion is imprisonèd. There think you see him sit with folded arms, Tears dropping down his cheeks, his white hairs torn, His legs in rusty fetters, and his tongue Bitterly cursing that his squint-eyed soul Did not make choice of wisdom’s sacred love. Fortune, to triumph in inconstancy, From prison bails him: liberty is wild, For being set free, he like a lusty eagle Cut with his vent’rous feathers through the sky, And ’lights not till he find the Turkish court. Thither transport your eyes, and there behold him, Revelling with the Emperor of the East, From whence through fear, for safeguard of his life, Flying into the arms of ugly Night, Suppose you see him brought to Babylon; And that the sun clothed all in fire hath rid One quarter of his hot celestial way With the bright morning, and that in this instant, He and the Soldan meet, but what they say, Listen you--the talk of kings none dare bewray. [_Exit._