The Dullness Of The Fool Is The

What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

Weep Not, Sweet Queen, For Trickling Tears Are Vain.

Thou Art A Castilian King Urinal!

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!