Let's talk of graves, worms, and epitaphs

             Psst: Scrub to 1 h 6 m 45 s for the "Hollow Crown" speech

If ever Hamlet's nugget about how "A thought which quartered hath but one part wisdom/And ever three parts coward" applied to anyone (because I personally don't think it actually describes Hamlet Jr.) it's Richard II. This young monarch, who is a Class-A wanker from the start, is prone to frilly rhetorical speeches throughout this eponymous play. However, may his dollophead status never cloud our appreciation of his insights, for he has as much (or more) tendency as any other king in Shakespeare to wax truthfully about the unique discomforts of sitting upon the throne. 

Richard is a psychological nightmare. He is the rightful heir to the throne, but it is implied that he was complicit in his own uncle Gloucester's murder. He was ten when he ascended, which, on top of acne and half-descended testicles, must have been stressful. He also has this uncanny Jesus complex, and believes anyone working against him to be "thrice worse than Judas." Perhaps because his father was the famous "Black Prince" Edward, whom he could never live up to, Richard has this nagging self-esteem issue, which he barely covers with a deep belief in the divine right of Kings and the strength of his name alone. He abuses his power and hangs out with a bunch of low-lifes--Bushy, Bagot, and Green, which sounds like some second rate Flogging Molly cover band.

It's when Richard steals and liquidates the newly deceased John of Gaunt's property, gives some to his flunkies, uses the rest to fund an unpopular war in Ireland, and then returns to find that Gaunt's son, Bolingbroke, has amassed a small army of loyal followers willing to fight in Bolingbroke's name that Richard begins to fret. His peeps deliver this information and Richard loses his shit. But at the same moment, he seems to gain this poetic and wise perspective on life as a Royal. This speech alone--the so-called "Hollow Crown" speech--should be proof enough that this somewhat under-garnished play (which is written entirely in verse, BTW) is worth a close reading.

King Richard II, Act III, Sc. II

King Richard: 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 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! 
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?

Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow?

Jeremy Irons as Henry IV in BBC's Hollow Crown series

Henry IV is losing it--and by "it" I mean not just his sanity, but his hold on his own kingdom. Sure, he defeated Northumberland's rebellion and his previously disreputable son grew a set and killed Hotspur, but the Archbishop's already got a conspiracy brewing against him and both Wales and France are getting ornery. Shit is getting real, and he thinks his son has reverted back to his previous dissipation and cares not for his well-being. The exact opposite is true, but Hal knows that suddenly appearing to be concerned would look hypocritical to the max.

Still, the moment Hal is summoned with news that his father is deathly ill, he races to his bedside to be alone with him and his not-so-surprisingly deep thoughts. The supreme irony of the Henry IV plays is that Hal knows more about the burden of the crown than anybody else--save Richard II, whose experience within the "hollow crown" is intimately disillusioned for most of his play--as this quiet, touching monologue proves. I'm a bit miffed at being cheated of the whole speech in the BBC's Hollow Crown episode--I would have loved to have heard more of Tom Hiddleston's dulcet whisperings--but it catches the drift.

My favorite bit is "When thou dost pinch thy bearer, Thou dost sit like a rich armour worn in heat of day, That scaldst with safety." Richard's own earlier assessment is that within the crown "Keeps Death his court... scoffing [the king's] state and grinning at his pomp," and that the mortal flesh of a king is believed to be "brass impregnable" that can in fact be breached by a "little pin." Both of these young men have realized their hard truth about power in very different ways, and it serves them with opposing results. One is deposed, the other, renowned. But they both die prematurely--one murdered, one diseased from war. Such is the price of encompassing the crown.

Between them, we peasants are privy to a unique insight about what it is to hold "divine" power.

2 King Henry IV, Act IV, Sc. V

Prince Henry: Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,

Being so troublesome a bedfellow?
O polish'd perturbation! golden care!
That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide
To many a watchful night! sleep with it now!
Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet
As he whose brow with homely biggen bound
Snores out the watch of night. O majesty!
When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day,
That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath
There lies a downy feather which stirs not:
Did he suspire, that light and weightless down
Perforce must move. My gracious lord! my father!
This sleep is sound indeed, this is a sleep
That from this golden rigol hath divorced
So many English kings. Thy due from me
Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood,
Which nature, love, and filial tenderness,
Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously:
My due from thee is this imperial crown,
Which, as immediate as thy place and blood,
Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits,
Which God shall guard: and put the world's whole strength
Into one giant arm, it shall not force
This lineal honour from me: this from thee
Will I to mine leave, as 'tis left to me.