And he that hath not still is poor indeed,
Though all the gold of Ophir ’long’d to him.
Enter Jaques, laughing.
Jaques. Though I be sworn to sadness it doth make
Me gladsome ’gainst my disposition
To note the antics of these greasy fools
Of Athens, pent within the glade where I,
All unobserv’d, have play’d the spy upon
’Em this full hour. How like these fustian churls
Be to their fellows of the scepter’d throne,