For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause; there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life

And the king could find no sleep. Not then, not now, and still he waits to this day in a shell of spent flesh... but they say he no longer dreams.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.

We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Don’t kill me,” he sobbed as he lay there. “Oh God, please don’t kill me.”
“If you had let me finish,” Skulduggery said, slightly annoyed, “you would have heard me say, ‘Come out, we’re not
going to hurt you’. Idiot.”
“He probably wouldn’t have said idiot,” Valkyrie told the sobbing man. “We’re trying our best to be nice.”
The man blinked through his tears, and looked up.
“You’re... You’re not going to kill me?”
“No, we’re not,” Valkyrie said gently, “so long as you wipe your nose right now.

Within the hollow crownThat rounds the mortal temples of a kingKeeps Death his court.