They are but beggars that can count their worth.

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.

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.