This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, 
          Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle France, 
          Hath drawn him from his own determin’d aid, 
          From a resolved and honorable war, 
          To a most base and vile-concluded peace. 
          And why rail I on this Commodity? 
          But for because he hath not woo’d me yet. 
          Not that I have the power to clutch my hand 
          When his fair angels would salute my palm; 
          But for my hand, as unattempted yet, 
          Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. 
          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. 
          Since kings break faith upon commodity,