O name forever sad! forever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches.
Byzantine Logothete.
Your name hangs in my heart like a bell's tongue.
Ich bin der Letzte meines Stamms; mein Name
Endet mit mir.
I am the last of my race. My name ends with me.
My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor!
Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung,
Saved others' names, but left his own unsung.
The one so like the other
As could not be distinguish'd but by names.
I would to God thou and I knew where a
commodity of good names were to be bought.
Henry IV. Pt. I. Act I. Sc. 2. L. 92.
Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words—
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter;
For new-made honour doth forget men's names.
King John. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 186.
When we were happy we had other names.
King John. Act V. Sc. 4. L. 7.
cannot tell what the dickens his name is.
Merry Wives of Windsor. Act III. Sc. 2.
L. 17.
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
Othello. Act III. Sc. 3. L. 157.
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
I do beseech you—
Chiefly, that I might set it in my prayers—
What is your name?
I am thankful that my name is obnoxious to no pun.
Ye say they all have passed away,
That noble race and brave;
That their light canoes have vanished'
From off the crested wave;
That mid the forests where they roamed
There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your waters;
Ye may not wash it out.
And last of all an Admiral came,
A terrible man with a terrible name,—
A name which you all know by sight very well;
But which no one can speak, and no one can spell.
I'll give you leave to call me anything, if you don't call me spade.
And the best and the worst of this is
That neither is most to blame,
If you have forgotten my losses
And I have forgotten your name.
The myrtle that grows among thorns is a myrtle still.
No sound is breathed so potent to coerce
And to conciliate, as their names who dare
For that sweet mother-land which gave them birth
Nobly to do, nobly to die.
O, Sophonisba, Sophonisba, O!
Charmed with the foolish whistling of a name.
Neither holy, nor Roman, nor Empire.