Oh that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw
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Oh that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew.
'Tis now the very witching time of night,
Whe
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'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imag
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The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose
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What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and than
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I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.
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