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 deposèd bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Boling-
broke’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 poisoned by their wives, some
sleeping killed,
All murdered. 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 humored
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?
The poem with the stressed
syllables underlined:
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 deposèd bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Boling-
broke’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 poisoned by their wives, some
sleeping killed,
All murdered. 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
humored 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?
Comment:
I long suspected that there was a regular
beat in this speech of all Shakespeare's
speeches, but I could not figure it out.
The fact that the lines do not run on, but
complete a thought or phrase at the end
of each line is certainly a strong hint that
there was a rhythm involved. It seems to
require a slow seriousness when spoken
that would emphasis a beat. After
figuring out his sonnets, it has become
clearer to me what Shakespeare intended
to be the beat. You could recite this poem
as prose and would be mostly right, of
course, but as someone interested in
writing poetry it is important to know
the logic behind the rhythm and assure
oneself that it is poetry. Many people
will say that it is iambic pentameter,
but what do they mean when saying
that? That there is a beat on every
second note? That poetry is just a mat-
ter of counting syllables? Nobody goes
further in explaining that assertion,
though it is common, because they have
only a superficial interest in the me-
chanics of poetry.
I have not read this play, so I am not
going to comment too much on this
speech's meaning. It appears to be
the king is feeling defeated and dis-
illusioned with his royal life and the
briefness of life in general, and feels
his followers are propping up an il-
lusion with their continued respect
towards him and resents it, not re-
alizing that in itself is a privilege.
© C.A. MacLennan 2026
