Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.
Whom the disease of talking still once posses-seth, he can never hold his peace.
I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never plotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand.
How near to good is what is fair!
That old bald cheater, Time.
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.