“What's in a name, anyway? That which we call a nose by any other name would still smell.”

“Today's theater-goer must live in dread of walking into a theater and discovering that some classic work has been given a modernized, socially relevant setting. Oedipus gouges his eyes with a spoon at a 1950's malt shop; Macbeth napalms Banquo in Viet Nam, Julius Caesar dies in Dallas in 1963. More and more, American theater is coming to resemble a season of Quantum Leap.”

“A.A. Greg argues, 'To print banquet for banket, fathom for fadom, lantern for lanthorn, murder for murther, mushroom for mushrump, orphan for orphant, perfect for parfit, portcullis for perculace, wreck for wrack, and so on, and so on, is sheer perversion.' Greg is considered by most scholars to be a majer dikhed.”

“What's in a name? that which we call a roseBy any other name would smell as sweet.”

“O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father refuse thy name, thou art thyself thou not a montegue, what is montegue? tis nor hand nor foot nor any other part belonging to a man What is in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, So Romeo would were he not Romeo called retain such dear perfection to which he owes without that title, Romeo, Doth thy name! And for that name which is no part of thee, take all thyself.”

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Tis but thy name that is my enemy;Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,Nor arm, nor face, nor any other partBelonging to a man. O, be some other name!What’s in a name? that which we call a roseBy any other name would smell as sweet;So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,Retain that dear perfection which he owesWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,And for that name which is no part of theeTake all myself.I take thee at thy word:Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;Henceforth I never will be Romeo.What man art thou that thus bescreen’din nightSo stumblest on my counsel?By a nameI know not how to tell thee who I am:My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,Because it is an enemy to thee;Had I it written, I would tear the word.My ears have not yet drunk a hundred wordsOf that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound:”