For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered; for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

For what good turn? Messenger: For the best turn of the bed.

When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.

The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

Report me and my cause aright.

I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.

The head is not more native to the heart.