There was never any question that this project would include selections from the great Bard himself. The question has always been, "Where to start?" How about, "The quality of mercy is not strain'd . . ." Or, "Friends, Romans, countrymen . . ." Or, "To be, or not to be . . ." Or, "Now is the winter of our discontent . . ." After all, these and other equally celebrated passages are regarded by many critics as the finest verses ever written in the English language.

But Shakespeare wrote other, less well known, soliloquies. Many, many others. And the least of these would put most poets and playwrights to shame. So why not choose one these, says I? Why not choose one that isn't so well known? One that wasn't taught in High School. And even then the task isn't easy. How about Ulysses' great conservative speech in Troilus and Cressida on the importance of tradition, degree, priority, place, proportion? Or Wolsey's wonderful farewell in The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth?

In the end, I chose Henry VI's plaintiff lament about life and death and power and fame, or as one critic described it, on "the superiority of humble contentment over regal misery." It has always been a favorite of mine. The play from which this soliloquy is taken, originally titled The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York, and the Death of Good King Henry the Sixth with the whole Contention between the two houses Lancaster and York, is an early Shakespearian effort, not so polished as his later works, and not so popular today, but wonderful nevertheless.

This speech is given by the hapless Henry as he sits alone on a "mole hill," while the battle rages between his enemies the Yorkists, led by Edward (soon to be King Edward IV), and the Lancastrians, led by his wife Margaret and Lord Clifford, who have told Henry that his presence on the battlefield would do more harm than good.

Henry was a pious, saintly man; a pacifist at a time when English Kings were expected to lead armies. Both his father and his grandfather were great warriors. He, however, was gentle and trusting, a stoic who never understood how to wield the power he inherited. The following well-known poem, which he wrote while a prisoner in the Tower of London, provides an insight into this gentle, troubled King.

Kingdoms are but cares,
State is devoid of stay,
Riches are ready snares,
And hasten to decay.

Pleasure is a privy prick
Which vice doth still provoke;
Pomp, imprompt; and fame, a flame;
Power, a smouldering smoke.

Who meaneth to remove the rock
Out of the slimy mud,
Shall mire himself, and hardly scape
The swelling of the flood.

To make matters worse, his wife, Margaret of Anjou, was a dreadful shrew of a woman; a nasty bully, a disruptive headstrong harridan, a sort of 15th century Hillary Rodham Clinton - "O tiger's heart wrapp'd in a woman's hide!"

In short, Henry never had a chance. In fact, his situation was so tragic that, despite his failure as a monarch, the English honored him in death as a martyr, making pilgrimages to his tomb in the Lady Chapel at Chertsey Abbey, seeking cures for their illnesses and help in their troubles. Here are Henry's words from Shakespeare's pen.