Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee. - Robert Greene

There is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you: and being an absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country.

Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows;
Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd bower.
Yet, were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,
She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.

A mind content both crown and kingdom is.