RICHARD                    Mark, silent King, the moral of this sport:

How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face.

BOLINGBROKE          The shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed

The shadow of your face.

RICHARD                                                                    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 giv’st

Me cause to wail but teachest me the way

How to lament the cause.                 (4.1.290-302)

Mark, silent King: well, aren’t you going to say something, Bolingbroke? Anything? Well, here’s the moral, an interpretation of all this messing about. How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face—in the smashed mirror—just as I said it should. Literal, exasperated Bolingbroke finally intervenes: the shadow, that is, the performance of your sorrow, has destroyed the shadow, the reflection of your face.  (Not your actual face. Get a grip, man.) Say that again. The shadow of my sorrow: Ha, let’s see. Oh, VERY good. Yes, you’re right, well done, ’tis very true (Richard takes control again, apparently, with much sarcastic praise) 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. (The words themselves swell, almost uncontrollably, overflowing.) If you think I’m acting out, performing my grief, my suffering, my pain—well, you ain’t seen nothing yet, this is just a pale imitation of the unseen grief, my agony within. These laments are merely shadows. Inside me, beyond words, my grief is choking me, a lump in my throat on the brink of a silent howl. (‘I have that within which passes show—these but the trappings and the suits of woe’, as Hamlet will say.) There—that is, inside—lies the substance of my grief. Everything I’ve said here, and everything I’ve destroyed, that’s just for show. I thank thee, King, for thy great bounty, your tremendous generosity, in not simply being the cause of all my sorrow but also giving me a lesson in how best to lament it. Cheers for that.