Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1595 (Annals) tragedy; history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an typicality 0.85 · 512 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
No Lord of thine, thou haught-insulting man; No, nor no man's Lord: I have no Name, no Title; No, not that Name was given me at the Font. But 'tis usurped: alack the heavy day, That I have worn so many Winters out, And know not now, what Name to call myself. Oh, that I were a Mockery, King of Snow, Standing before the Sun of Bullingbrooke, To melt myself away in Water-drops. Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good, And if my word be Sterling yet in England, Let it command a Mirror hither strait, That it may show me what a Face I have, Since it is Bankrupt of his Majesty. Go some of you, and fetch a looking-glass. Read o'er this Paper, while the Glasse doth come. Fiend, thou torments me, ere I come to Hell. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland. The Commons will not then be satisfied. They shall be satisfied: I'll read enough, When I do see the very Book indeed, Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself. Give me that Glass, and therein will I read. No deeper wrinkles yet? hath Sorrow struck So many Blows upon this Face of mine, And made no deeper Wounds? Oh flattering Glass, Like to my followers in prosperity, Thou dost beguile me. Was this Face, the Face That every day, under his household Roof, Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the Face, That like the Sun, did make beholders wink? Is this the Face, which faced so many follies, That was at last outfaced by Bullingbrooke? A brittle Glory shineth in this Face, As brittle as the Glory, is the Face, For there it is, cracked in an hundred shivers. Mark silent King, the Moral of this sport, How soon my Sorrow hath destroyed my Face. The shadow of your Sorrow hath destroyed The shadow of your Face. Say that again. The shadow of my Sorrow: ha', let's see, 'Tis very true, my Grief lies all within, And these external manner of Laments, Are merely shadows, to the unseen Grief, That swells with silence in the tortured Soul. There lies the substance: and I thank thee King For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way How to lament the cause. I'll beg one Boon, And then be gone, and trouble you no more. Shall I obtain it? Name it, fair Cousin. Fair Cousin? I am greater than a King: For when I was a King, my flatterers Were then but subjects; being now a subject, I have a King here to my flatterer: Being so great, I have no need to beg. Yet ask. And shall I have? You shall. Then give me leave to go. Whither? Wither you will, so I were from your sights. Go some of you, convey him to the Tower. Oh good: convey: Conueyers are you all, That rise thus nimbly by a true King's fall. On Wednesday next, we solemnly set down Our Coronation: Lords, prepare yourselves.
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)
No Lord of thine, thou haught-inſulting man; No, nor no mans Lord: I haue no Name, no Title; No, not that Name was giuen me at the Font. But 'tis vſurpt: alack the heauie day, That I haue worne ſo many Winters out, And know not now, what Name to call my ſelfe. Oh, that I were a Mockerie, King of Snow, Standing before the Sunne of Bullingbrooke, To melt my ſelfe away in Water-drops. Good King, great King, and yet not greatly good, And if my word be Sterling yet in England, Let it command a Mirror hither ſtraight, That it may ſhew me what a Face I haue, Since it is Bankrupt of his Maieſtie. Goe ſome of you, and fetch a Looking-Glaſſe. Read o're this Paper, while yc Glaſſe doth come. Fiend, thou torments me, ere I come to Hell. Vrge it no more, my Lord Northumberland. The Commons will not then be ſatisfy'd. They ſhall be ſatisfy'd: Ile reade enough, When I doe ſee the very Booke indeede, Where all my ſinnes are writ, and that's my ſelfe. Giue me that Glaſſe, and therein will I reade. No deeper wrinckles yet? hath Sorrow ſtrucke So many Blowes vpon this Face of mine, And made no deeper Wounds? Oh flatt'ring Glaſſe, Like to my followers in proſperitie, Thou do'ſt beguile me. Was this Face, the Face That euery day, vnder his Houſe-hold Roofe, Did keepe ten thouſand men? Was this the Face, That like the Sunne, did make beholders winke? Is this the Face, which fac'd ſo many follyes, That was at laſt out-fac'd by Bullingbrooke? A brittle Glory ſhineth in this Face, As brittle as the Glory, is the Face, For there it is, crackt in an hundred ſhiuers. Marke ſilent King, the Morall of this ſport, How ſoone my Sorrow hath deſtroy'd my Face. The ſhadow of your Sorrow hath deſtroy'd The ſhadow of your Face. Say that againe. The ſhadow of my Sorrow: ha, let's ſee, 'Tis very true, my Griefe lyes all within, And theſe externall manner of Laments, Are meerely ſhadowes, to the vnſeene Griefe, That ſwells with ſilence in the tortur'd Soule. There lyes the ſubſtance: and I thanke thee King For thy great bountie, that not onely giu'ſt Me cauſe to wayle, but teacheſt me the way How to lament the cauſe. Ile begge one Boone, And then be gone, and trouble you no more. Shall I obtaine it? Name it, faire Couſin. Faire Couſin? I am greater then a King: For when I was a King, my flatterers Were then but ſubiects; being now a ſubiect, I haue a King here to my flatterer: Being ſo great, I haue no neede to begge. Yet aske. And ſhall I haue? You ſhall. Then giue me leaue to goe. Whither? Whither you will, ſo I were from your ſights. Goe ſome of you, conuey him to the Tower. Oh good: conuey: Conueyers are you all, That riſe thus nimbly by a true Kings fall. On Wedneſday next, we ſolemnly ſet downe Our Coronation: Lords, prepare your ſelues.