2 The Troublesome Reign of King John · chunk 17 of 19
Anonymous · published 1611 · first performed or written 1591 (Annals) history · Queen Elizabeth's Men T15 Friars and holy orders in plot typicality 0.64 · 503 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T15: friar, lord, holy, friars, robin, peggy, lacie, angelo, love, nun.
Wassell my Liege, and as a poor Monk may say, welcome to Swinstead. Begin Monk, and report hereafter thou wast taster to a King. As much health to your Highness as to mine own heart. I pledge thee kind Monk. The merriest draft that ever was drunk in England. Am I not too bold with your Highness? Not a whit, all friends and fellows for a time. If the inwards of a toad be a compound of any proof: why so it works. Stay Philip, where's the Monk? He is dead my Lord. Then drink not Philip for a world of wealth. What cheer my liege? your colour 'gins to change. So doth my life: O Philip, I am poisoned. The Monk, the Devil, the poison 'gins to rage, It will depose myself a King from reign. This Abbot hath an interest in this act. At all adventures take thou that from me. There lie the Abbot, Abbey, Lubber, Devil. March with the Monk unto the gates of hell. How fares my Lord? Philip, some drink, oh for the frozen Alps, To tumble on and cool this inward heat, That rageth as the furnace sevenfold hot. To burn the holy tree in Babylon, Power after power forsake their proper power, Only the heart impugns with faint resist The fierce invade of him that conquers Kings, Help God, O pain! die Iohn, O plague Inflicted on thee for thy grievous sins. Philip, a chair, and by and by a grave, My legs disdain the carriage of a King. A good my Liege, with patience conquer grief, And bear this pain with kingly fortitude. Me thinks I see a catalogue of sin, Wrote by a fiend in marble characters, The least enough to lose my part in heaven. Me thinks the Devil whispers in mine ears, And tells me, 'tis in vain to hope for grace, I must be damned for Arthur's sudden death, I see I see a thousand thousand men Come to accuse me for my wrong on earth, And there is none so merciful a God That will forgive the number of my sins. How have I lived, but by another's loss? What have I loved, but wrack of others weal? When have I vowed, and not infringed mine oath? Where have I done a deed deserving well? How, what, when, and where, have I bestowed a day, That tended not to some notorious ill. My life replete with rage and tyranny, Craves little pity for so strange a death. Or, who will say that Iohn deceased too soon? Who will not say, he rather lived too long. Dishonour did attaint me in my life, And shame attendeth Iohn unto his death. Why did I scape the fury of the French, And dide not by the temper of their swords? Shameless my life, and shamefully it ends, Scorned by my foes, disdained of my friends. Forgive the world and all your earthly foes, And call on Christ, who is your latest friend.
seed 43: T19 · seed 44: T20 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Waſſell my Liege, and as a poore Monke may ſay, welcome to Swinstead. Begin Monke, and report hereafter thou waſt taſter to a King. As much health to your Highneſſe as to mine owne heart. I pledge thee kind Monke. The merrieſt draught that euer was drunke in England. Am I not too bold with your Highneſſe? Not a whit, all friends and fellowes for a time. If the inwards of a toad be a compound of any proofe: why ſo it workes. Stay Philip, where's the Monke? He is dead my Lord. Then drinke not Philip for a world of wealth. What cheere my liege? your collor gins to change. So doth my life: O Philip, I am poiſon'd. The Monke, the Diuell, the poyſon gins to rage, It will depoſe my ſelfe a King from raigne. This Abbot hath an intereſt in this act. At all aduentures take thou that from me. There lie the Abbot, Abbey, Lubber, Diuell. March with the Monke vnto the gates of hell. How fares my Lord? Philip, ſome drinke, oh for the frozen Alpes, To tumble on and coole this inward heate, That rageth as the fornace ſeuen-fold hote. To burne the holy tree in Babylon, Power after power forſake their proper power, Onely the heart impugnes with faint reſiſt The fierce inuade of him that conquers Kings, Helpe God, O paine! die Iohn, O plague Inflicted on thee for thy grieuous ſinnes. Philip, a chaire, and by and by a graue, My legges diſdaine the carriage of a King. A good my Liege, with patience conquer griefe, And beare this paine with kingly fortitude. Me thinkes I ſee a catalogue of ſinne, Wrote by a fiend in marble characters, The leaſt enough to looſe my part in heauen. Me thinkes the Diuell whiſpers in mine eares, And tells me, tis in vaine to hope for grace, I muſt be damn'd for Arthurs ſodaine death, I ſee I ſee a thouſand thouſand men Come to accuſe me for my wrong on earth, And there is none ſo mercifull a God That will forgiue the number of my ſinnes. How haue I liu'd, but by anothers loſſe? What haue I lou'd, but wracke of others weale? When haue I vow'd, and not infring'd mine oath? Where haue I done a deede deſeruing well? How, what, when, and where, haue I beſtow'd a day, That tended not to ſome notorious ill. My life repleate with rage and tyrannie, Craues little pittie for ſo ſtrange a death. Or, who will ſay that Iohn deceaſde too ſoone? Who will not ſay, he rather liu'd too long. Diſhonour did attaint me in my life, And ſhame attendeth Iohn vnto his death. Why did I ſcape the fury of the French, And dide not by the temper of their ſwords? Shameleſſe my life, and ſhamefully it ends, Scorn'd by my foes, diſdained of my friends. Forgiue the world and all your earthly foes, And call on Chriſt, who is your lateſt friend.