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 · 508 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.
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward Watch, Whereto my finger, like a dials point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is, Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart, Which is the bell: so Sighs, and Tears, and Groans, Show Minutes, Hours, and Times: but my Time Runs posting on, in Bullingbrookes' proud joy, While I stand fooling here, his jack o' th' Clock. This Music mads me, let it sound no more, For though it have holp madmen to their wits, In me it seems, it will make wisemen mad: Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me; For 'tis a sign of love, and love to Richard, Is a strange Brooch, in this all-hating world. Hail Royal Prince. Thanks Noble Peer, The cheapest of us, is ten groats too dear. What art thou? And how comest thou hither? Where no man ever comes, but that sad dog That brings me food, to make misfortune live? I was a poor Groom of thy Stable (King) When thou were't King: who traveling towards York, With much ado, at length have gotten leave To look upon my (sometimes Royal) masters face. O how it yerned my heart, when I beheld In London streets, that Coronation day, When Bullingbrooke road on Roan Barbary, That horse, that thou so often hast bestrid, That horse, that I so carefully have dressed. Road he on Barbary? Tell me gentle Friend, How went he under him? So proudly, as if he had disdained the ground. So proud, that Bullingbrooke was on his back; That jade hath eat bread from my Royal hand. This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down (Since Pride must have a fall) and break the neck Of that proud man, that did usurp his back? Forgiveness horse: Why do I rail on thee, Since thou created to be awed by man Was't borne to bear? I was not made a horse, And yet I bear a burden like an Ass, Spurgalled, and tired by jauncing Bullingbrooke. Fellow, give place here is no anger If hou loue me, thou with away. What thy tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. My Lord, will please you to fall too? Taste of it first, as thou were't wont to do. My Lord I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, Who lately came from th' King, commands the contrary. The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee; Patience is stolen, and I am weary of it. Help, help, help. How now? what means Death in this rude assault? Villain, thine own hand yields thy death's instrument, Go thou and fill another room in hell. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand, Hath with the King's blood, stained the Kings own land. Mount, mount my soul, thy seat is up on high, Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to dye.
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)
Their watches on vnto mine eyes, the outward Watch, Whereto my finger, like a Dialls point, Is pointing ſtill, in cleanſing them from teares. Now ſir, the ſound that tels what houre it is, Are clamorous groanes, that ſtrike vpon my heart, Which is the bell: ſo Sighes, and Teares, and Grones, Shew Minutes, Houres, and Times: but my Time Rns poaſting on, in Bullingbrookes proud ioy, While I ſtand fooling heere, his iacke o' th' Clocke. This Muſicke mads me, let it ſound no more, For though it haue holpe madmen to their wits, In me it ſeemes, it will make wiſe-men mad: Yet bleſſing on his heart that giues it me; For 'tis a ſigne of loue, and loue to Richard, Is a ſtrange Brooch▪ in this all-hating world. Haile Royall Prince. Thankes Noble Peere, The cheapeſt of vs, is ten groates too deere. What art thou? And how com'ſt thou hither? Where no man euer comes, but that ſad dogge That brings me food, to make misfortune liue? I was a poore Groome of thy Stable (King) When thou wer't King: who trauelling towards Yorke, With much adoo, at length haue gotten leaue To looke vpon my (ſometimes Royall) maſters face. O how it yern'd my heart, when I beheld In London ſtreets, that Coronation day, When Bullingbrooke rode on Roane Barbary, That horſe, that thou ſo often haſt beſtrid, That horſe, that I ſo carefully haue dreſt. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me gentle Friend, How went he vnder him? So proudly, as if he had diſdain'd the ground. So proud, that Bullingbrooke was on his backe; That Iade hath eate bread from my Royall hand. This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not ſtumble? Would he not fall downe (Since Pride muſt haue a fall) and breake the necke Of that proud man, that did vſurpe his backe? Forgiueneſſe horſe: Why do I raile on thee, Since thou created to be aw'd by man Was't borne to beare? I was not made a horſe, And yet I beare a burthen like an Aſſe, Spur-gall'd, and tyrd by lantig Bullingbrooke. Fellow, giue place heere is nger y. If hou loue me, thou with away. What thy tongue das not, that my heart ſhall ſay. My Lord, will pleaſe you to fall too? Taſte of it firſt, as thou wer't wont to doo. My Lord I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, Who lately came from th' King, commands the contrary. The diuell take Henrie of Lancaſter, and thee; Patience is ſtale, and I am weary of it. Helpe, helpe, helpe. How now? what meanes Death in this rude aſſalt? Villaine, thine owne hand yeelds thy deaths inſtrument, Go thou and fill another roome in hell. That hand ſhall burne in neuer-quenching fire, That ſtaggers thus my perſon. Exton, thy fierce hand, Hath with the Kings blood, ſtain'd the Kings own land. Mount, mount my ſoule, thy ſeate is vp on high, Whil'ſt my groſſe fleſh ſinkes downward, heere to dye.