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 · 503 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.
A woeful Pageant have we here beheld. The Woes to come, the Children yet unborn, Shall feel this day as sharp to them as Thorn. You holy Clergymen, is there no Plot To rid the Realm of this pernicious Blot. Before I freely speak my mind herein, You shall not only take the Sacrament, To bury mine intents, but also to effect What ever I shall happen to device. I see your Brows are full of Discontent, Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Tears. Come home with me to Supper, I'll lay a Plot Shall show us all a merry day. This way the King will come: this is the way To Iulius Caesar's ill-erected Tower: To whose flint Bosom, my condemned Lord Is doomed a Prisoner, by proud Bullingbrooke. Here let us rest, if this rebellious Earth Have any resting for her true King's Queen. But soft, but see, or rather do not see, My fair Rose whither: yet look up; behold, That you in pity may dissolve to dew, And wash him fresh again with true-love Tears. Ah thou, the Model where old Troy did stand, Thou Map of Honour, thou King Richard's Tombe, And not King Richard: thou most beauteous Inn, Why should hard-favoured Grief be lodged in thee, When Triumph is become an Alehouse Guest. join not with grief, fair Woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden: learn good Soul, To think our former State a happy Dream, From which awaked, the truth of what we are, Shows us but this. I am sworn Brother (Sweet) To grim Necessity; and he and I Will keep a League till Death. High thee to France, And Cloister thee in some Religious House: Our holy lives must win a new World's Crown, Which our profane hours here have stricken down. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind Transformed, and weakened? Hath Bullingbrooke Deposed thine Intellect? hath he been in thy Heart? The Lion dying, thrusteth forth his Paw, And wounds the Earth, if nothing else, with rage To be o're-powred: and wilt thou, Pupill-like, Take thy Correction mildly, kiss the Rod, And fawn on Rage with base Humility, Which art a Lion, and a King of Beasts? A King of Beasts indeed: if aught but Beasts, I had been still a happy King of Men. Good (sometime Queen) prepare thee hence for France: Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak'st, As from my Deathbed, my last living leave. In Winter's tedious Nights sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee Tales Of woeful Ages, long ago betide: And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their grief, Tell thou the lamentable fall of me, And send the hearers weeping to their Beds: For why? the senseless Brands will sympathise The heavy accent of thy moving Tongue, And in compassion, weep the fire out: And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black, For the deposing of a rightful King.
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)
A wofull Pageant haue we here beheld. The Woes to come, the Children yet vnborne, Shall feele this day as ſharpe to them as Thorne. You holy Clergie-men, is there no Plot To rid the Realme of this pernicious Blot. Before I freely ſpeake my minde herein, You ſhall not onely take the Sacrament, To bury mine intents, but alſo to effect What euer I ſhall happen to deuiſe. I ſee your Browes are full of Diſcontent, Your Heart of Sorrow, and your Eyes of Teares. Come home with me to Supper, Ile lay a Plot Shall ſhew vs all a merry day. This way the King will come: this is the way To Iulius Caeſars ill-erected Tower: To whoſe flint Boſome, my condemned Lord Is doom'd a Priſoner, by prowd Bullingbrooke. Here let vs reſt, if this rebellious Earth Haue any reſting for her true Kings Queene. But ſoft, but ſee, or rather doe not ſee, My faire Roſe wither: yet looke vp; behold, That you in pittie may diſſolue to dew, And waſh him freſh againe with true-loue Teares. Ah thou, the Modell where old Troy did ſtand, Thou Mappe of Honor, thou King Richards Yombe, And not King Richard: thou moſt beauteous Inne, Why ſhould hard-fauor'd Griefe be lodg'd in thee, When Triumph is become an Ale-houſe Gueſt. Ioyne not with griefe, faire Woman, do not ſo, To make my end too ſudden: learne good Soule, To thinke our former State a happie Dreame, From which awak'd, the truth of what we are, Shewes vs but this. I am ſworne Brother (Sweet) To grim Neceſſitie; and hee and I Will keepe a League till Death. High thee to France, And Cloyſter thee in ſome Religious Houſe: Our holy liues muſt winne a new Worlds Crowne, Which our prophane houres here haue ſtricken downe. What, is my Richard both in ſhape and minde Transform'd, and weaken'd? Hath Bullingbrooke Depos'd thine Intellect? hath he beene in thy Heart? The Lyon dying, thruſteth forth his Paw, And wounds the Earth, if nothing elſe, with rage To be o're-powr'd: and wilt thou, Pupill-like, Take thy Correction mildly, kiſſe the Rodde, And fawne on Rage with baſe Humilitie, Which art a Lyon, and a King of Beaſts? A King of Beaſts indeed: if aught but Beaſts, I had beene ſtill a happy King of Men. Good (ſometime Queene) prepare thee hence for France: Thinke I am dead, and that euen here thou tak'ſt, As from my Death-bed, my laſt liuing leaue. In Winters tedious Nights ſit by the fire With good old folkes, and let them tell thee Tales Of wofull Ages, long agoe betide: And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their griefe, Tell thou the lamentable fall of me, And ſend the hearers weeping to their Beds: For why? the ſenceleſſe Brands will ſympathize The heauie accent of thy mouing Tongue, And in compaſſion, weepe the fire out: And ſome will mourne in aſhes, ſome coale-black, For the depoſing of a rightfull King.