“…Tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d;
All murder’d: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court…”
(Richard II, 3.2)
Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France:Think I am dead and that even here thou takest,As from my death-bed, thy last living leave.
For you have but mistook me all this while:/ I live with bread like you, feel want,/ taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,/ How can you say to me, I am a king? (Richard II 3.2)
- for within the hollow crown/ 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;/ 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 through his castle wall, and - farewell king!
(-‘Richard II’, The Hollow Crown)
Let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth