There's a time for all things.

Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions

And thence from Athens turn away our eyes To seek new friends and stranger companies.

Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?

You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.

I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip

I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.