O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told; Many a man his life hath sold; But my outside to behold.

If thou art rich, thou'rt poor, For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee.

All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, An 'tis no better reckoned but of these Who worship dirty gods.

They are but beggars that can count their worth.

If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, that I may slumber in eternal sleep!