In words to make description of my name, My nature or conditions, were but vain; Sith this attire so plainly shows the same, As showed cannot be in words more plain. For lo, thus roundabout in feathers dight, Doth plainly figure mine inconstancy: As feathers, light of mind; of wit as light, Subjected still to mutability, And for to paint me forth more properly, Behold each feather decked gorgeously With colours strange in such variety, As plainly pictures perfect vanity. And so I am, to put you out of doubt, Even vanity wholly; within, without: In head, in heart: in all parts roundabout: But whence I come, and why I hither come, And upon whom I daily do attend, In brief, to show you in a little sum, My special meaning is, and so an end. I came from Fortune, my most sovereign dame, Amongst whose chiefest servants I am one: Fortune, that earthly goddess great of name, To whom all suits I do prefer alone. She, minding in this place forthwith t'appear, In her most gorgeous pomp and princely port, Sends me to see all things in presence here, Prepar'd and furnish'd in the bravest sort. Here will she mount this stately sumptuous throne, As she is wont to hear each man's desire: And whoso wins her favour by his moan, May have of her the thing he doth require. And yet another dame there is, her enemy, 'Twixt whom remains continual emulation: Virtue who, in respect of Fortune's sovereignty, Is held, God wot, of simple reputation; Yet hither comes (poor soul) in her degree, This other seat half-forced to supply: But 'twixt their state what difference will be, Yourselves shall judge and witness, when you see. Therefore I must go deck up handsomely, What best beseems Dame Fortune's dignity. [_Exit_. SCENE II. _Enter_ PRODIGALITY, POSTILION, _and_ HOST. PROD. Postilion, stay, thou drugg'st on like an ass. Lo, here's an inn, which I cannot well pass: Here will we bait, and rest ourselves awhile. POST. Why, sir, you have to go but six small mile; The way is fair, the moon shines very bright. Best now go on, and then rest for all night. PROD. Tush, Postil, fair or foul, or far or near, My weary bones must needs be rested here. POST. 'Tis but a paltry inn, there's no good cheer; Yet shall you pay for all things passing dear. PROD. I care not for all that: I love mine ease. POST. Well, sir, a God's name, then do what you please. PROD. Knock, then, at the gate. POST. Ho, who's at home? hostler, chamberlain, tapster? Ho! take in gentlemen. Knave, slave, host, hostess, ho! [_Rip, rap, rip, rap_. What, is there none that answers? _Tout a la mort_? Sir, you must make entrance at some other port: For here's no passage.