In smythes fire-spitting forge, and nayles like clawes appeard.
His yron cote, all overgrowne with rust,
Was underneath enveloped with gold;
Whose glistring glosse, darkened with filthy dust,
Well yet appeared to have beene of old
A worke of rich entayle[92] and curious mould,
Woven with antickes and wyld ymagery;
And in his lap a masse of coyne he told,
And turned upside downe, to feede his eye
And covetous desire with his huge threasury.