Samuel West as Henry V - 'upon the king' - Shakespeare solos

Samuel West speaks Henry V’s soliloquy from Act IV, Scene 1. On the night before battle, Henry reflects upon the public’s expectations of the king. Subscribe to Guardian Culture ► ****** To mark the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death, we asked leading actors to perform key speeches from his plays. Read more about Shakespeare solos ► ****** Samuel West stars in the second series of the BBC’s The Hollow Crown and in Present Laughter at the Theatre Royal Bath from 22 June to 9 July ► ****** The Guardian Film Show ► ****** Guardian Culture website ► ****** Guardian Film website ► ****** The Guardian on YouTube: The Guardian ► ****** Watch Me Date ► ****** Guardian Football ► ****** Guardian Music ► ****** Guardian Australia ► ****** Guardian Tech ► ****** Guardian Wires ► ****** Guardian Food ► ******

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 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? And what art thou, thou idol ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers? What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery? Oh, 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? 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 'Tis not the balm, the scepter, 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 That beats upon the high shore of this world. No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who, with a body filled and vacant mind, Gets him to rest, crammed with distressful bread; Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, And follows so the ever-running year With profitable labor to his grave. And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the forehand and vantage of a king.