Act I, Scene 6

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• Shakespeare. Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
  In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
  Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
  With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
  That use is not forbidden usury, 75
  Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
  That's for thyself to breed another thee,
  Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
  Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
  If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: 80
  Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
  Leaving thee living in posterity?
  Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
  To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.