Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.
If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick
For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.
Soul of the age! The applause! delight! The wonder of our stage!
Ambition makes more trusty slaves than need
The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.