They are but beggars that can count their worth, but my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.

Now, good my lord, Let there be some more test made of my mettle Before so noble and so great a figure Be stamped upon it.

I would that I were low laid in my grave. I am not worth this coil that's made for me.

(Goneril:) I have been worth the whistle. (Albany:) O Goneril, You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.

O, how thy worth with manners may I sing When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring, And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?

I know a trick worth two of that.