Thy friendship makes us fresh.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty!, guilty!
We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness.