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What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

- William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare Rose

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

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What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

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More Rose quotes

A rose is a rose is a rose.

Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling, give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard, give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows, give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape, give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching content, give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars, Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.

The rose petal floats on water. The kingfisher flashes above the pond. Life's little, our heads sadly shaped. Heaven takes its photograph of us--chants, Come! and we go.

Rabindranath Tagore

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