Richard II (excerpts): Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.Make dust our paper and with rainy eyesWrite sorrow on the bosom of the earth.Let's choose executors and talk of wills.And yet not so, for what can we bequeathSave our deposed bodies to the ground?Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,And nothing can we call our own but DeathAnd that small model of the barren earthWhich serves as paste to cover our bones.For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the groundAnd 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 crownThat rounds the mortal temples of a kingKeeps Death his court, and there the antic sits,Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,Allowing him a breath, a little sceneTo monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks,Infusing him with self and vain conceit,As if this flesh which walls about our lifeWere brass impregnable. And humored thus,Comes at the last, and with a little pinBores through his castle walls, and farewell king.Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and bloodWith solemn reverence. Throw away respect,Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,For you have 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?