Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1595 (Annals) tragedy; history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 509 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
For Heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of Kings: How some have been deposed, some slain in war, Some haunted by the Ghosts they have deposed, Some poisoned by their Wives, some sleeping killed, All murdered. For within the hollow Crown That rounds the mortal Temples of a King, Keeps Death his Court, and there the Antique sits Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little Scene, To Monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this Flesh, which walls about our Life, Were Brass impregnable: and humoured thus, Comes at the last, and with a little Pin Boars through his Castle Walls, and farewell King. Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn Reverence: throw away Respect, Tradition, Form, and Ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while: I live with Bread like you, feel Want, Taste Grief, need Friends: subjected thus, How can you say to me, I am a King? My Lord, wise men ne'er wail their present woes, But presently prevent the ways to wail: To fear the Foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives in your weakness, strength unto your Foe; Fear, and be slain, no worse can come to fight, And fight and die, is death destroying death, Where fearing, dying, pays death servile breath. My Father hath a Power, inquire of him, And learn to make a Body of a Limb. Thou chidest me well: proud Bullingbrooke I come To change Blows with thee, for our day of Doom: This ague fit of fear is overblown, An easy task it is to win our own. Say Scroop, where lies our Uncle with his Power? Speak sweetly man, although thy looks be sour. Men judge by the complexion of the Sky The state and inclination of the day; So may you by my dull and heavy Eye: My Tongue hath but a heavier Tale to say: I play the Torturer, by small and small To lengthen out the worst, that must be spoken. Your Uncle York is joined with Bullingbrooke, And all your Northern Castles yielded up, And all your Southern Gentlemen in Arms Upon his Faction. Thou hast said enough. Beshrew thee Cousin, which didst lead me forth Of that sweet way I was in, to despair: What say you now? What comfort have we now? By Heaven I'll hate him everlastingly. That bids me be of comfort any more. Go to Flint Castle, there I'll pine away, A King, Woes slave, shall Kingly Woe obey: That Power I have, discharge, and let 'em go To ear the Land, that hath some hope to grow, For I have none. Let no man speak again To alter this, for counsel is but vain. My Liege, one word. He does me double wrong, That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. Discharge my followers: let them hence away, From Richard's Night, to Bullingbrookes' fair Day.
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)
For Heauens ſake let vs ſit vpon the ground, And tell ſad ſtories of the death of Kings: How ſome haue been depos'd, ſome ſlaine in warre, Some haunted by the Ghoſts they haue depos'd, Some poyſon'd by their Wiues, ſome ſleeping kill'd, All murther'd. For within the hollow Crowne That rounds the mortall Temples of a King, Keepes Death his Court, and there the Antique ſits Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pompe, Allowing him a breath, a little Scene, To Monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with lookes, Infuſing him with ſelfe and vaine conceit, As if this Fleſh, which walls about our Life, Were Braſſe impregnable: and humor'd thus, Comes at the laſt, and with a little Pinne Bores through his Caſtle Walls, and farwell King. Couer your heads, and mock not fleſh and blood With ſolemne Reuerence: throw away Reſpect, Tradition, Forme, and Ceremonious dutie, For you haue but miſtooke me all this while: I liue with Bread like you, feele Want, Taſte Griefe, need Friends: ſubiected thus, How can you ſay to me, I am a King? My Lord, wiſe men ne're waile their preſent woes, But preſently preuent the wayes to waile: To feare the Foe, ſince feare oppreſſeth ſtrength, Giues in your weakeneſſe, ſtrength vnto your Foe; Feare, and be ſlaine, no worſe can come to fight, And fight and die, is death deſtroying death, Where fearing, dying, payes death ſeruile breath. My Father hath a Power, enquire of him, And learne to make a Body of a Limbe. Thou chid'ſt me well: proud Bullingbrooke I come To change Blowes with thee, for our day of Doome: This ague fit of feare is ouer-blowne, An eaſie taske it is to winne our owne. Say Scroope, where lyes our Vnckle with his Power? Speake ſweetly man, although thy lookes be ſowre. Men iudge by the complexion of the Skie The ſtate and inclination of the day; So may you by my dull and heauie Eye: My Tongue hath but a heauier Tale to ſay: I play the Torturer, by ſmall and ſmall To lengthen out the worſt, that muſt be ſpoken. Your Vnckle Yorke is ioyn'd with Bullingbrooke, And all your Northerne Caſtles yeelded vp, And all your Southerne Gentlemen in Armes Vpon his Faction. Thou haſt ſaid enough. Beſhrew thee Couſin, which didſt lead me forth Of that ſweet way I was in, to deſpaire: What ſay you now? What comfort haue we now? By Heauen Ile hate him euerlaſtingly. That bids me be of comfort any more. Goe to Flint Caſtle, there Ile pine away, A King, Woes ſlaue, ſhall Kingly Woe obey: That Power I haue, diſcharge, and let 'em goe To eare the Land, that hath ſome hope to grow, For I haue none. Let no man ſpeake againe To alter this, for counſaile is but vaine. My Liege, one word. He does me double wrong, That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. Diſcharge my followers: let them hence away, From Richards Night, to Bullingbrookes faire Day.