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 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!
For God's sake, let's sit on the ground And tell sad stories about the death of kings; How some have been overthrown; some killed in battle, Some haunted by the ghosts of those they deposed; Some poisoned by their wives; some killed in their sleep; All murdered: because within the hollow crown That circles the mortal head of a king Death keeps court, and the fool sits there, Mocking his state and grinning at his power, Allowing him only a brief moment to rule, To be feared and kill with a glance, Filling him with arrogance and pride, As if this flesh that surrounds our life Were made of solid brass, unbreakable, But in the end, a tiny pin Pierces the castle walls, and the king falls!
King Richard II · Act 3, Scene 2
Richard, stripped of his army and his throne within hours, sits down in despair and speaks as if he has become a philosopher. The speech endures because it moves from political loss to something universal: all kings die, all crowns are hollow, all flesh is temporary. In losing everything, Richard discovers the one thing no usurper can take—the ability to speak truth about the human condition.
Glad am I that your highness is so arm’d To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an unseasonable stormy day, Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, As if the world were all dissolved to tears, So high above his limits swells the rage Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel. White-beards have arm’d their thin and hairless scalps Against thy majesty; boys, with women’s voices, Strive to speak big and clap their female joints In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown: The very beadsmen learn to bend their bows Of double-fatal yew against thy state; Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills Against thy seat: both young and old rebel, And all goes worse than I have power to tell.
I’m glad to see your highness is ready To hear the news of disaster. Like an untimely stormy day, Which makes the silver rivers flood their banks, As if the world was drowning in tears, So the anger of Bolingbroke rises above his limits, Covering your frightened land With harsh bright steel and hearts even harder than steel. Old men have armed their thin, hairless scalps Against your majesty; boys, with women’s voices, Try to sound strong and beat their untrained arms In stiff, awkward gestures against your crown: Even the beggars have learned to bend their bows Of deadly yew against your state; Yes, even women working with distaffs Manage rusty bills against your throne: Both young and old rebel, And everything is worse than I can say.
Sir Stephen Scroop · Act 3, Scene 2
Scroop reports that Bolingbroke has landed in England with a powerful army, supported by nobles and common people alike, and that the kingdom is rising against Richard in all quarters. The line persists because it catalogues the totality of the disaster—old men, young boys, women, even beggars have taken up arms, and the kingdom has simply chosen Bolingbroke. Richard's fall is not a battle but a cascade.
Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day: So may you by my dull and heavy eye, My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. I play the torturer, by small and small To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken: Your uncle York is join’d with Bolingbroke, And all your northern castles yielded up, And all your southern gentlemen in arms Upon his party.
People judge the weather by the sky’s color, And the mood of the day by the sky’s look: So you can tell by my dull, heavy eyes, My tongue has an even darker message to deliver. I play the torturer, stretching out The worst news that must be told: Your uncle York has joined Bolingbroke, And all your northern castles have surrendered, And all your southern supporters are now fighting On his side.
Sir Stephen Scroop · Act 3, Scene 2
Scroop begins his worst revelation by comparing his dull, heavy expression to a cloudy sky that foretells a storm, and warns that the news he carries is so dark he must deliver it in pieces. The line matters because it uses meteorology as a metaphor for fate—men read the weather to predict the future, and Scroop is saying the sky itself is telling us what is coming. Nature itself is announcing the catastrophe.
