Our wills and fates do so contrary runThat our devices still are overthrown;Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
Through tattered clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide them all
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
For there's no motion That tends to vice in man, but I affirm It is the woman's part.
For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg.
Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary
Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.