Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom
there is no help.

Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom
there is no help.

For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.

For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.

The Royall Crowne cures not the head-ach.
[The Royal Crown cures not the headache.]

The Royall Crowne cures not the head-ach.
[The Royal Crown cures not the headache.]

Every subject's duty is the king's, but every subject's soul is
his own.

Every subject's duty is the king's, but every subject's soul is
his own.

Why, our battalia trebles that account:
Besides, the king's name is a tower of strength,
Which they read more

Why, our battalia trebles that account:
Besides, the king's name is a tower of strength,
Which they upon the adverse faction want.

'Tis a very fine thing to be father-in-law
To a very magnificent three-tailed bashaw.

'Tis a very fine thing to be father-in-law
To a very magnificent three-tailed bashaw.

For God's sake let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings!
read more

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,

The gates of monarchs
Are arched so high that giants may jet through
And keep their impious read more

The gates of monarchs
Are arched so high that giants may jet through
And keep their impious turbans on without
Good morrow to the sun.

I loved no King since Forty One
When Prelacy went down,
A Cloak and Band I then read more

I loved no King since Forty One
When Prelacy went down,
A Cloak and Band I then put on,
And preached against the Crown.