All dark and comfortless.
His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.
O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog.
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!