The seasons alter: hoary-headed frostsFall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.

Many-headed multitude.

Beauty’s ensign yetIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet

It not just going to fall into our lap. We're going to have to go out and earn it.

Speak quickly. My patience wanes.