As brittle as the glory is the face;

[Dashes the glass against the ground.

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.

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Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd

The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.

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?

Boling.
K. Rich.

Name it, fair cousin.

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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.

Boling. Yet ask.

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