St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, "Honi soit qui mal y pense."

St. George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France.
Sing, "Honi soit qui mal y pense."

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.

The King is dead! Long live the King!

The King is dead! Long live the King!

A crown is merely a hat that lets the rain in.

A crown is merely a hat that lets the rain in.

There was a king of Thule,
Was faithful till the grave,
To whom his mistress dying,
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There was a king of Thule,
Was faithful till the grave,
To whom his mistress dying,
A golden goblet gave.
[Ger., Es war ein Konig in Tule
Gar treu bis an das Grab,
Dem sterbend seine Buhle
Einen gold'nen Becher gab.]

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

We will ourself in person to this war;
And, for our coffers, with too great a court
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We will ourself in person to this war;
And, for our coffers, with too great a court
And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,
We are enforced to farm our royal realm,
The revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand.

God gives not kings the stile of Gods in vaine,
For on his throne his sceptre do they sway;
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God gives not kings the stile of Gods in vaine,
For on his throne his sceptre do they sway;
And as their subjects ought them to obey,
So kings should feare and serve their God againe.

Hener was the hero-king,
Heaven-born, dear to us,
Showing his shield
A shelter for read more

Hener was the hero-king,
Heaven-born, dear to us,
Showing his shield
A shelter for peace.