Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) T38 Death, parting and grief at court typicality 0.87 · 505 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
A little joy enjoys the Queen thereof, For I am she, and altogether joyless: I can no longer hold me patiented. Hear me, you wrangling Pirates, that fall out, In sharing that which you have peeled from me: Which off you trembles not, that looks on me? If not, that I am Queen, you bow like Subjects; Yet that by you deposed, you quake like Rebels. Ah gentle Villain, do not turn away. Fowl wrinkled Witch, what makest thou in my sight? But repetition of what thou hast marred, That will I make, before I let thee go. Wert thou not banished, on pain of death? I was: but I do find more pain in banishment, Then death can yield me here, by my abode. A Husband and a Son thou ow'st to me, And thou a Kingdom; all of you, allegiance: This Sorrow that I have, by right is yours, And all the Pleasures you usurp, are mine. The Curse my Noble Father laid on thee, When thou didst Crown his Warlike Brows with Paper, And with thy scorns drewest Rivers from his eyes, And then to dry them, 'gainst the Duke a Clowt, Steeped in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland: His Curses then, from bitterness of Soul, Denounced against thee, are all fall'n upon thee: And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed. So just is God, to right the innocent. O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that Babe, And the most merciless, that ere was heard of. Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported. No man but prophesied revenge for it. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it. What? were you snarling all before I came, Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turn you all your hatred now on me? Did York's dread Curse prevail so much with Heaven, That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death, Their Kingdom's loss, my woeful Banishment, Should all but answer for that peevish Brat? Can Curses pierce the Clouds, and enter Heaven? Why then give way dull Clouds to my quick Curses. Though not by War, by Surfeit dye your King, As ours by Murder, to make him a King. Edward thy Son, that now is Prince of Wales, For Edward our Son, that was Prince of Wales, die in his youth, by like untimely violence. Thyself a Queen, for me that was a Queen, Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self: Long may'st thou live, to wail thy children's death, And see another, as I see thee now, Decked in thy Rights, as thou art stalled in mine. Long die thy happy days, before thy death, And after many lengthened hours of grief, die neither Mother, Wife, nor England's Queen. Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by, And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my Son Was stabbed with bloody Daggers: God, I pray him, That none of you may live his natural age, But by some unlooked accident cut off. Have done thy Charm, thou hateful withered Hag.
seed 43: T44 · seed 44: T6 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
A little ioy enioyes the Queene thereof, For I am ſhee, and altogether ioyleſſe: I can no longer hold me patient. Heare me, you wrangling Pyrates, that fall out, In ſharing that which you haue pill'd from me: Which off you trembles not, that lookes on me? If not, that I am Queene, you bow like Subiects; Yet that by you depos'd, you quake like Rebells. Ah gentle Villaine, doe not turne away. Foule wrinckled Witch, what mak'ſt thou in my ſight? But repetition of what thou haſt marr'd, That will I make, before I let thee goe. Wert thou not baniſhed, on paine of death? I was: but I doe find more paine in baniſhment, Then death can yeeld me here, by my abode. A Husband and a Sonne thou ow'ſt to me, And thou a Kingdome; all of you, allegeance: This Sorrow that I haue, by right is yours, And all the Pleaſures you vſurpe, are mine. The Curſe my Noble Father layd on thee, When thou didſt Crown his Warlike Brows with Paper, And with thy ſcornes drew'ſt Riuers from his eyes, And then to dry them, gan'ſt the Duke a Clowt, Steep'd in the faultleſſe blood of prettie Rutland: His Curſes then, from bitterneſſe of Soule, Denounc'd againſt thee, are all falne vpon thee: And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed. So iuſt is God, to right the innocent. O, 'twas the fouleſt deed to ſlay that Babe, And the moſt mercileſſe, that ere was heard of. Tyrants themſelues wept when it was reported. No man but prophecied reuenge for it. Northumberland, then preſent, wept to ſee it. What? were you ſnarling all before I came, Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turne you all your hatred now on me? Did Yorkes dread Curſe preuaile ſo much with Heauen, That Henries death, my louely Edwards death, Their Kingdomes loſſe, my wofull Baniſhment, Should all but anſwer for that peeuiſh Brat? Can Curſes pierce the Clouds, and enter Heauen? Why then giue way dull Clouds to my quick Curſes. Though not by Warre, by Surfet dye your King, As ours by Murther, to make him a King. Edward thy Sonne, that now is Prince of Wales, For Edward our Sonne, that was Prince of Wales, Dye in his youth, by like vntimely violence. Thy ſelfe a Queene, for me that was a Queene, Out-liue thy glory, like my wretched ſelfe: Long may'ſt thou liue, to wayle thy Childrens death, And ſee another, as I ſee thee now, Deck'd in thy Rights, as thou art ſtall'd in mine. Long dye thy happie dayes, before thy death, And after many length'ned howres of griefe, Dye neyther Mother, Wife, nor Englands Queene. Riuers and Dorſet, you were ſtanders by, And ſo waſt thou, Lord Haſtings, when my Sonne Was ſtab'd with bloody Daggers: God, I pray him, That none of you may liue his naturall age, But by ſome vnlook'd accident cut off. Haue done thy Charme, yu hateful wither'd Hagge.