Page 2915 - Shakespeare - Vol. 1
P. 2915
Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? Terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence.
SCROPE
Sweet love, I see, changing his property, [135]
Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate.
Again uncurse their souls. Their peace is made
With heads and not with hands. Those whom you curse
Have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound,
And lie full low, grav’d in the hollow ground. [140]
AUMERLE
Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?
SCROPE
Ay, all of them at Bristow lost their heads.
AUMERLE
Where is the Duke my father with his power?
RICHARD
No matter where. Of comfort no man speak.
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; [145]
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? [150]
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 [155]
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 kill’d,
All murdered. For within the hollow crown [160]
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
