it no more, my Lord Northumberland.
The commons will not then be satisfied.
They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
Give me the glass, and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds? O flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? was this the face
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink?
Was this the face that faced so many follies,
And was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face;
For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,
How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.
The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd
The shadow or your face.
Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow! ha! let's see:
'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;
And these external manners of laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortured soul;
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only givest
Me cause to wail but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,
And then be gone and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?
Name it, fair cousin.
'Fair cousin'? I am greater than a king:
For when I was a king, my flatterers
Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.
Being so great, I have no need to beg.
Yet ask.
And shall I have?
You shall.
Then give me leave to go.
Whither?
Whither you will, so I were from your sights.
Go, some of you convey him to the Tower.
O, good! convey? conveyers are you all,
That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall.
On Wednesday next we solemnly set down
Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves.
A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
The woe's to come; the children yet unborn.
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.
You holy clergymen, is there no plot
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?
My lord,
Before I freely speak my mind herein,
You shall not only take the sacrament
To bury