You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.

For it so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours

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?