The Queen

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O fools who gild their worth with borrowed gold,
And prance as nobles crowned by fortune's breath,
Thy honor, purchased, crumbles to the old,
For coin-bound virtue leads but unto death.
Thy friends, like moths, to thy false beacon fly,
Feasting on favor, hollow in their cheer.
But when the winds of fortune fade and die,
Their vows, like shadows, vanish in thin air.
True virtue lives not in the wealth of man,
Nor in the praise of those who seek their gain.
It stands unbent, where no false flatterer can,
And scorns the baubles that the vain would feign.
So know, thy worth is weighed by time alone,
Not riches held, but seeds of truth sown.