Page 1687 - Shakespeare - Vol. 2

Exeunt Soldiers.
Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls,
Our debts, our careful wives,
Our children, and our sins lay on the king!

We must bear all. O hard condition!
Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath [225]
Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel
But his own wringing. What infinite heart’s ease

Must kings neglect that private men enjoy!
And what have kings that privates have not too,
Save ceremony, save general ceremony? [230]
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?

What kind of god are thou, that suffer’st more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?
O ceremony, show me but thy worth! [235]

What is thy soul of adoration?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?
Wherein thou art less happy, being fear’d,

Than they in fearing. [240]
What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison’d flattery? O be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!

Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation? [245]
Will it give place to flexure and low-bending?
Canst thou, when thou command’st the beggar’s knee,

Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,
That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose;
I am a king that find thee; and I know [250]
’Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball,

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farcèd title running ’fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp [255]

That beats upon the high shore of this world −
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,