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All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts,
What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes, Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet
The Globe Theater
