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 · 502 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.
Hold thy peace. He that hath suffered this disordered Spring, Hath now himself met with the Fall of leaf. The Weeds that his broadspreading Leaves did shelter, That seemed, in eating him, to hold him up, Are pulled up, Root and all, by Bullingbrooke: I mean, the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushie, Greene. What are they dead? They are, And Bullingbrooke hath seized the wasteful King. Oh, what pity is it, that he had not so trimmed And dressed his Land, as we this Garden, at time of year, And wound the Bark, the skin of our Fruit-trees, Lest being over-proud with Sap and Blood, With too much riches it confound itself? Had he done so, to great and growing men, They might have lived to bear, and he to taste Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughs may live: Had he done so, himself had borne the Crown, Which waste and idle hours, hath quite thrown down. What think you the King shall be deposed? Depressed he is already, and deposed 'Tis doubted he will be. Letters came last night To a dear Friend of the Duke of York's, That tell black tidings. Oh I am pressed to death through want of speaking: Thou old Adam's likeness, set to dress this Garden: How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news What Eve? what Serpent hath suggested thee, To make a second fall of cursed man? Why dost thou say, King Richard is deposed, Darest thou, thou little better thing than earth, Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how Cam'st thou by this ill-tydings? Speak thou wretch. Pardon me Madam. Little joy have I To breathe these news; yet what I say, is true; King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bullingbrooke, their Fortunes both are weighed: In your Lords Scale, is nothing but himself, And some few Vanities, that make him light: But in the Balance of great Bullingbrooke, Besides himself, are all the English Peers, And with that odds he weighs King Richard down. Post you to London, and you'll find it so, I speak no more, than every one doth know. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, Doth not thy Embassage belong to me? And am I last that knows it? Oh thou thinkest To serve me last, that I may longest keep Thy sorrow in my breast. Come Ladies go, To meet at London, London's King in woe. What was I borne to this: that my sad look, Should grace the Triumph of great Bullingbrooke. Gardener, for telling me this news of woe, I would the Plants thou graftest, may never grow. Poor Queen, so that thy State might be no worse, I would my skill were subject to thy curse: here did she drop a tear, here in this place I'll set a Bank of Rew, sour Herb of Grace: Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, In the remembrance of a Weeping Queen.
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)
Hold thy peace. He that hath ſuffer'd this diſorder'd Spring, Hath now himſelfe met with the Fall of Leafe. The Weeds that his broad-ſpreading Leaues did ſhelter, That ſeem'd, in eating him, to hold him vp, Are pull'd vp, Root and all, by Bullingbrooke: I meane, the Earle of Wiltſhire, Buſhie, Greene. What are they dead? They are, And Bullingbrooke hath ſeiz'd the waſtefull King. Oh, what pitty is it, that he had not ſo trim'd And dreſt his Land, as we this Garden, at time of yeare, And wound the Barke, the skin of our Fruit-trees, Leaſt being ouer-proud with Sap and Blood, With too much riches it confound it ſelfe? Had he done ſo, to great and growing men, They might haue liu'd to beare, and he to taſte Their fruites of dutie. Superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughes may liue: Had he done ſo, himſelfe had borne the Crowne, Which waſte and idle houres, hath quite thrown downe. What thinke you the King ſhall be depos'd? Depreſt he is already, and depos'd 'Tis doubted he will be. Letters came laſt night To a deere Friend of the Duke of Yorkes, That tell blacke tydings. Oh I am preſt to death through want of ſpeaking: Thou old Adams likeneſſe, ſet to dreſſe this Garden: How dares thy harſh rude tongue ſound this vnpleaſing newes What Eue? what Serpent hath ſuggeſted thee, To make a ſecond fall of curſed man? Why do'ſt thou ſay, King Richard is depos'd, Dar'ſt thou, thou little better thing then earth, Diuine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how Cam'ſt thou by this ill-tydings? Speake thou wretch. Pardon me Madam. Little ioy haue I To breath theſe newes; yet what I ſay, is true; King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bullingbrooke, their Fortunes both are weigh'd: In your Lords Scale, is nothing but himſelfe, And ſome few Vanities, that make him light: But in the Ballance of great Bullingbrooke, Beſides himſelfe, are all the Engliſh Peeres, And with that oddes he weighes King Richard downe. Poſte you to London, and you'l finde it ſo, I ſpeake no more, then euery one doth know. Nimble miſchance, that art ſo light of foote, Doth not thy Embaſſage belong to me? And am I laſt that knowes it? Oh thou think'ſt To ſerue me laſt, that I may longeſt keepe Thy ſorrow in my breaſt. Come Ladies goe, To meet at London, Londons King in woe. What was I borne to this: that my ſad looke, Should grace the Triumph of great Bullingbrooke. Gard'ner, for telling me this newes of woe, I would the Plants thou graft'ſt, may neuer grow. Poore Queen, ſo that thy State might be no worſe, I would my skill were ſubiect to thy curſe: Heere did ſhe drop a teare, heere in this place Ile ſet a Banke of Rew, ſowre Herbe of Grace: Rue, eu'n for ruth, heere ſhortly ſhall be ſeene, In the remembrance of a Weeping Queene.