Only the actions of the just, Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

For each of our actions there are only consequences.

The glories of our blood and state, Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate, Death lays his icy hand on kings. Scepter and crown must tumble down, And, in the dust, be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet

Every other person in the world would have looked at it and thought, Max would hate this. It was girly. It was beautiful. It wasn't made of titanium and black leather with spikes on it. But it seemed exactly right, in a weird, heart-fluttery kind of way. And I really loved it.