Previously in this series.

Thou hast a plucky band of friends who alleviate the great drama of thy life with their witticisms. Alas, they will later be horribly killed thanks to their prior association with thee.

Thou not only tellest sad stories of the death of kings, thou liv’st it.

Thy mentor is a drunkard or dead.

Thy wife is a metaphor for colonialism.

Thou hast put new meaning into the term “kissing cousins.”

Thy advisor is a turncoat.

Thou trusteth in Churchmen, and find thyself manipulated.

Thou art a great disappointment to thy father.

And thy mother.

And thy whole family, more or less.

Forget the longbow—’tis thy speeches that won the day!

Thou hast murdered at least one member of thy family.

Thy family is so dysfunctional, it is a wonder thou hast not killed off some of them before now.

Thy family is only somewhat functional when a member of a rival family appears.

Thy subjects have insulted thee to thy face.

Thy country is full of easily-led mobs.

Thou art continually at war with the French.

Someone is imprisoned in the Tower.

A duke is dead. ‘Tis likely thy fault.

Though thou speakest aloud thy secret plans,
it surprises all to see blood on thy hands.

Thou art not a very good king.

If thou be a good killer, thou be not a good king.

Thou art king, thy head is heavy with the crown,
and thou speakest of this fact endlessly.

Thy son cavorts with a creepy old man.

Thy brothers would be better kings than thee.

Thy brother’s wife looks very attractive…

Oops. All thy brothers are dead.

Thou art a maid, and thy name is Mary, Katherine, or Elizabeth.

Thou art a man, and thy name is Richard, Edward, or Henry.

Thou hast the Pope much offended.
In return, all Europe is upended.

Thou hast been forced to eat a leek.

On, on, you noblest English! Spit thy enemy’s infants on pikes! Ravish their virgins! Smash their old mens’ heads against the wall! For that is the behavior of noble Englishmen at war!

Thou hast an incredibly obvious pseudonym.

Thy rival hast sent thee a case of balls. ‘Tis a low blow (and bad pun) even for thee.

Thou art the king, and yet thou feelest thyself greatly inferior to the as-of-yet unestablished Tudor dynasty.

Thou art a Tudor king and thou feelest in thy soul that all thy greatness of thy legacy will be incarnated in thy noblest and most glorious descendant Elizabeth I! (Forget Richard II Your Majesty! ‘Twas not thee!)

Likewise, is not James I the most handsome monarch to ever roam the earth?

Thou hast a prophetic dream that thy current course will lead to thy death, and yet thou dost not change thy plans.

Only in thy death art thou heroic.