To sleep perchance with Quarles. Ay, there’s the rub
For to what class a writer may be doomed,
When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect that makes
Th’ unwilling poet keep his piece nine years.
For who would bear the impatient thirst of fame,
The price of conscious merit, and ’bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? who would fardels bear?