There's A Time For All Things.

Why, Then The World ’s Mine Oyster, Which I With Sword Will Open.

Who Seeks, And Will Not Take, When Once 'tis Offer'd, Shall Never Find It More.

... And Death Unloads Thee.

Thou Art A Boil, A Plague Sore, An Embossed Carbuncle In My Corrupted Blood.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph.