The Misfortunes of Arthur (Certain Devices and Shows Presented to Her Majesty) · chunk 10 of 35
Hughes, Thomas / Fulbecke, William · published 1587 · first performed or written 1588 [Feb 28] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 482 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
Must I to gain renown, incur my plague, Or hoping praise sustain an exiles life? Must I for country's ease disease myself, Or for their love despise my own estate? No. 'tis my hap that Britain serves my turn, That fear of me doth make the Subjects crouch, That what they grudge, they do constrained yield. If their assents be slow, my wrath is swift, Whom favour fails to bend, let fury break. If they be yet to learn, let terror teach, What Kings may do, what Subjects ought to bear. Then is a Kingdom at a wished stay, When whatsoever the Sovereign wills, or nills, Men be compelled as well to praise, as bear, And subjects wills enforced against their wills. But who so seeks true praise, and just renown, Would rather seek their praising hearts, than tongues. True praise may happen to the basest groom, A forced praise to none, but to a Prince. I wish that most, that Subjects most repine. But yet where wars do threaten your estate, There needeth friends to fortify your Crown. Each Crown is made of that attractive mould, That of itself it draws a full defence. That is a just, and no usurped Crown. And better were an exiles life, then thus Disloyally to wrong your Sire and Liege. Think not that impious crimes can prosper long, A time they scape, in time they be repaid. The hugest crimes bring best success to some. Those some be rare. Why may not I be rare? It was their hap. It is my hope. But hope May miss, where hap doth hurl. So hap may hit, Where hope doth aim. But hap is last, and rules The stern. So hope is first, and hoists the sail. Yet fear: the first and last do fielde agree. Nay dare: the first and last have many means. But cease at length: your speech molests me much: My mind is fixed. Give Mordred leave to do. What Conan neither can allow, nor like. But lo an herald sent from Arthur's host: Gods grant his message may portend our good. YOUR Sire (O Prince) considering what distress, The Realm sustains by both your mutual wars, Hath sent your brother Gavin Alban King To treat of truce, and to imparle of peace. Speak brother: what commandment sends my Sire? What message do you bring? My life, or death? A message far unmeet, most needful tho. The Sire commands not, where the Son rebels: His love descends too deep to wish your death. And mine ascends to high to wish his life. Yet thus he offereth: though your faults be great, And most disloyal to his deep abuse: Yet yield yourself: he'll be as prone to grace, As you to ruth: An Uncle, Sire, and Liege. And fitter were your due submission done, Then wrongful wars to reave his right and Realm.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Must I to gaine renowne, incurre my plague, Or hoping prayse sustaine an exiles life? Must I for Countries ease disease my selfe, Or for their loue dispise my owne estate? No. Tis my happe that Brytain serues my tourne, That feare of me doth make the Subiects crouch, That what they grudge, they do constrayned yeeld. If their assents be slowe, my wrath is swift, Whom fauour failes to bende, let furie breake. If they be yet to learne, let terrour teach, What Kings may doe, what Subiects ought to beare. Then is a Kingdome at a wished staye, When whatsoeuer the Souereigne wills, or nilles, Men be compelde as well to praise, as beare, And Subiects willes inforc'd against their willes. But who so seekes true praise, and iust renowme, Would rather seeke their praysing heartes, then tongues. True praise may happen to the basest groome, A forced prayse to none, but to a Prince. I wish that most, that Subiects most repine. But yet where warres doe threaten your estate, There needeth friendes to fortifie your Crowne. Ech Crowne is made of that attractiue moulde, That of it selfe it drawes a full defence. That is a iust, and no vsupred Crowne. And better were an exiles life, then thus Disloyally to wronge youe Sire and Liedge. Thinke not that impious crimes can prosper long, A time they scape, in time they be repaide. The hugest crimes bring best successe to some. Those some be rare. Why may not I be rare? It was their hap. It is my hope. But hope May misse, where hap doth hurle. So hap may hit, Where hope doth aime. But hap is last, and rules The stearne. So hope is first, and hoists the saile. Yet feare: the first and last doe sielde agreé. Nay dare: the first and last haue many meanes. But cease at length: your speach molests me much: My minde is fixt. Giue Mordred leaue to doe. What Conan neither can allow, nor like. But loe an Herault sent from Arthurs hoast: Gods graunt his message may portend our good. YOUR Sire (O Prince) considering what distresse, The Realme sustaines by both your mutuall warres, Hath sent your brother Gawin Albane King To treate of truce, and to imparle of peace. Speake brother: what commaundment sends my Sire? What message doe you bring? My life, or death? A message farre vnmeéte, most neédefull tho. The Sire commaunds not, where the Sonne rebels: His loue descends too deépe to wish your death. And mine ascends to high to wish his life. Yet thus he offreth: though your faults be great, And most disloyall to his deépe abuse: Yet yeélde your selfe: he'il be as prone to grace, As you to ruth: An Uncle, Sire, and Liedge. And fitter were your due submission done, Then wrongfull warres to reaue his right and Realme.