What, am I poor of late?

What, am I poor of late?
‘Tis certain, greatness, once fall'n out with Fortune,
Must fall out with men too. What the declined is
He shall as soon read in the eyes of others
As feel in his own fall, for men, like butterflies,
Show not their mealy wings but to the summer,
And not a man, for being simply man,
Hath any honor, but honor for those honors
That are without him—as place, riches, and favor,
Prizes of accident as oft as merit,
Which, when they fall, as being slippery slanders,
The love that leaned on them, as slippery too,
Doth one pluck down another and together
Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me.
Fortune and I are friends. I do enjoy,
At ample point, all that I did possess,
Save these men's looks, who do, methinks, find out
Something not worth in me such rich beholding
As they have often given. Here is Ulysses.
I'll interrupt his reading.