SONNET XLIII

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, And, for that name which is no part of thee Take all myself.

Now, while the rose we name, The honeyed essence of the land at sea, Flours beneath the summer sky, Let me not speak of you as mine alone, But as a breath of fragrant air, That on the brightest days, The thorns could never hold.

• Edna St Vincent Millay