Sonnet Ccvii:

This fellow calls me sordid, that one poor-- Poorer in spirit than in purse, perchance; Another's humid eyeballs shine and dance To tell some slip of which his lust is sure. One has a conscience that can scarce endure My private dealings, but will not advance When what he scorned becomes his circumstance, And soils his fingers with a gain less pure. I laugh at these. I cannot tell thee, Sweet, In what contempt I hold the chaffering crew Who rob the market and defile the stew; Whose only virtue is to scold and beat The public jades whom they in private meet, To kiss and hug in God's insulted view.