| Rich. No matter where—of comfort no man speak: |
|
| Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; |
145 |
| Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes |
|
| Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth; |
|
| Let’s choose executors and talk of wills. |
|
| And yet not so—for what can we bequeath |
|
| Save our deposed bodies to the ground? |
150 |
| Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke’s, |
|
| And nothing can we call our own but death; |
|
| And that small model of the barren earth |
|
| Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. |
|
| For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground |
155 |
| And tell sad stories of the death of kings: |
|
| How some have been depos’d, some slain in war, |
|
| Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed, |
|
| Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping kill’d, |
|
| All murthered—for within the hollow crown |
160 |
| That rounds the mortal temples of a king |
|
| Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits, |
|
| Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, |
|
| Allowing him a breath, a little scene, |
|
| To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks; |
165 |
| Infusing him with self and vain conceit |
|
| As if this flesh which walls about our life |
|
| Were brass impregnable; and, humour’d thus |
|
| Comes at the last, and with a little pin |
|
| Bores thorough his castle wall, and farewell king! |
170 |
| Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood |
|
| With solemn reverence; throw away respect, |
|
| Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty; |
|
| For you have but mistook me all this while. |
|
| I live with bread like you, feel want, |
175 |
| Taste grief, need friends—subjected thus, |
|
| How can you say to me, I am a king? |
|
