RICHARD II

Richard’s speeches and analyses.
Richard II

Richard II | Act 3, Scene 2 | 144-177

No matter where, of comfort no man speak…

Arden 3 | 2002

Source
Arden 3 | Forker, Charles R. London: Methuen & Co. Ltd., 2002

KING RICHARD II
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 deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed –
All murdered. 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 feared 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 humoured thus,
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through 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?

Thought Counts
Arden 3 | 2002

Thoughts |TBD

Short: 7
Medium: 6
Long: 1
Total: 14

End-stopped: 10
Mid-line: 4

Periods: 8
Exclamations: 2
Questions: 2
Unfinished: 2

Objective

 

Helena needs the audience to

Thoughts
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
1. No matter where. 2. Of comfort no man speak!
3. 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.
4. Let’s choose executors and talk of wills.
5. And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?                                                       150
6. 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.
7. For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground                                                   155
And tell sad stories of the death of kings –
8. How some have been deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed –
9. All murdered. 10. 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 feared 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 humoured thus,
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king!                                          170
11. Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence. 12. Throw away respect,
Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while.
13. I live with bread like you, feel want,                                                            175
Taste grief, need friends. 14. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Line Analysis
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!                                        10  or 10 R
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,                                          10 R                145
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes                                                10 R
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.                                                 10 R
Let’s choose executors and talk of wills.                                                  10 R
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath                                               10 R
Save our deposèd bodies to the ground?                                               10 or 10 R         150
Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke’s,                                        10 R
And nothing can we call our own but death                                           10 or 10 R
And that small model of the barren earth                                                10
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.                                     10 R
For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground                                               10        155
And tell sad stories of the death of kings –                                              10 or 10 R
How some have been deposed, some slain in war,                               10 R
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,                                10
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed –                         10 or 10 R
All murdered. For within the hollow crown                                                10 or 10 R        160
That rounds the mortal temples of a king                                                  10 R
Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits,                                      10 or 10 R
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,                                            10
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,                                                           10 R
To monarchize, be feared and kill with looks,                                            10 R                165
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,                                                      10 R
As if this flesh which walls about our life                                                    10 R
Were brass impregnable; and humoured thus,                                         10 R
Comes at the last and with a little pin                                                         10
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king!                                   10                   170
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood                                   10
With solemn reverence. Throw away respect,                                          10 R or 11
Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,                                                          11 W or 12 W
For you have but mistook me all this while.                                              10 or 10 R
I live with bread like you, feel want,                                                             8                     175
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,                                                 8
How can you say to me I am a king?                                                         10

Pacing and Tempo
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. ^ Of comfort ^ no man speak!  PAUSE?
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.  PAUSE?
Let’s choose executors ^ and talk of wills.  PAUSE?
And yet not so, ^ for what can we bequeath →*
Save our deposed bodies ^ to the ground? PAUSE?                                     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.  PAUSE?
For God’s sake ^ let us sit upon the ground →*                                                 155
And tell sad stories of the death of kings –    PAUSE?
How some have been deposed, ^ some slain in war,
Some haunted ^ by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poisoned ^ by their wives, ^ some ^ sleeping killed –  PAUSE?
All murdered. ^ 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 feared ^ 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 humoured thus,
Comes at the last ^ and with a little pin →
Bores through his castle wall, ^ and farewell, king!    PAUSE?                       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.    PAUSE?
I live with bread like you, ^ feel want,      PAUSE                                                   175
Taste grief, ^ need friends. ^ Subjected thus, PAUSE
How can you say to me ^ I am a king?

Alliteration & Onomatopoeia
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
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 deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed –
All murdered. 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 feared 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 humoured thus,
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through 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?

Assonance & Rhyme
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
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 deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed –
All murdered. 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 feared 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 humoured thus,
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through 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?

Consonance
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
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 deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed –
All murdered. 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 feared 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 humoured thus,
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through 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?

Rhetoric
Arden 3 | 2002

imagery

metaphor

simile

plain comparison

juxtaposition

antithesis

contradiction/paradox

personification

this and that

this, that, and another thing

enumerations

repetitions of words or phrases

parenthesis

irony

puns and other wordplay

onomatopoeia

 

KING RICHARD II
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 deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed –
All murdered. 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 feared 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 humoured thus,
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through 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?

Before and After
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
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 deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed –
All murdered. 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 feared 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 humoured thus,
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through 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?

Definitions
Arden 3 | 2002

comfort

graves

worms

epitaphs

dust

rainy eyes

bosom

executors

bequeath

deposed

Bolingbroke

small model of the barren earth

paste and cover to our bones

slain

mortal

temples

antic

scoffing

state

grinning

pomp

breath

scene

monarchize

feared

kill with looks

infusing

self

vain

conceit

brass

impregnable

humoured

bores

thorough

mock

solemn

reverence

respect

tradition

form

ceremonious duty,

bread

subjected

Translation
Ian Leung

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Translation
No Fear Shakespeare

KING RICHARD II
It doesn’t matter where he is. Let’s not try to cheer ourselves up. We must talk about graves and worms and epitaphs . We’ll make the dust our paper and use our tears to write a message of sorrow on the earth. Let’s choose our executors and talk of wills. And, yet, what can we bequeath to anyone other than leaving our rotting bodies to the ground? Our lands and our lives now belong to Bolingbroke, and we can call nothing our own except for our deaths and that little patch of earth that will cover our buried bodies. For God’s sake, let’s sit on the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings, how some were overthrown and others killed in war. Some were haunted by the ghosts of the kings they had overthrown. Still others were poisoned by their wives, while others were killed in their sleep. All of them, however, were murdered. There is always death around kings, and there’s no way to escape it. Death laughs at the king’s reign and mocks his great ceremonies, allowing him to live a little while and play the monarch. Death fills him with pride as if the king’s body were immortal, and at the end death comes and with little effort kills the body. Then goodbye, king! So stop treating me so respectfully. There’s no need to pretend that I am any different than you. You’ve been wrong about me all this time. I feel all the same things that you do. I have desires and feel sad and need friends, just like you. How, then, can you say that I’m a king?

Richard II | Act 3, Scene 2 | 144-177

No matter where, of comfort no man speak…

Arden 2 | 1979

Source
Arden 3 | Forker, Charles R. London: Methuen & Co. Ltd., 2002

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Thought Counts
Arden 3 | 2002

Thoughts |TBD

Short: 6
Medium: 4
Long: 2
Total: 12

End-stopped: 8
Mid-line: 4

Periods: 8
Exclamations: 2
Questions: 2
Unfinished: 0

Objective

 

Helena needs the audience to

Thoughts
Arden | 1979

KING RICHARD II
1. No matter where. 2. Of comfort no man speak!
3. Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
4. Let’s choose executors and talk of wills.
5. And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
6. 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.
7. For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground
And 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. 8. 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 feared 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!
9. Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence. 10. Throw away respect,
Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while.
11. I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends. 12. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Line Analysis
Arden | 1979

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Pacing and Tempo
Arden | 1979

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Alliteration & Onomatopoeia
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Assonance & Rhyme
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Consonance
Arden 3 | 2002

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Rhetoric
Arden | 1979

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Before and After
Arden | 1979

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Definitions
Arden | 1979

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

Translation
Arden | 1979

KING RICHARD II
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak!
Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,
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?
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
And 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; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be feared 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!
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,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me I am a king?

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