Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
And I with all unwillingness will go. O would to God, that the inclusive Verge Of Golden metal, that must round my Brow, Were red hot Steel, to sear me to the Brains, Anointed let me be with deadly Venom, And dye ere men can say, God save the Queen. Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory, To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. No: why? When he that is my Husband now, Came to me, as I followed Venries' Corpse. When scarce the blood was well washed from his hands, Which issued from my other Angel Husband, And that dear Saint, which then I weeping followed: O, when I say I looked on Richard's Face, This was my Wish: Be thou (quoth I) accursed, For making me, so young, so old a Widow: And when thou weddest, let sorrow haunt thy Bed; And be thy Wife, if any be so mad, More miserable, by the Life of thee, Then thou hast made me, by my dear Lords death. Lo, ere I can repeat this Curse again, Within so small a time, my Woman's heart Grossly grew captive to his honey words, And proved the subject of mine own Souls Curse, Which hitherto hath held mine eyes from rest: For never yet one hour in his Bed Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep, But with his timorous Dreams was still awaked. Besides, he hates me for my Father Warwick, And will (no doubt) shortly be rid of me. Poor heart adieu, I pity thy complaining. No more, then with my soul I mourn for yours. Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory. Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st thy leave of it. Go thou to Richmond, & good fortune guide thee, Go thou to Richard, and good Angels tend thee, Go thou to Sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee, I to my Grave, where peace and rest lie with me. Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, And each hours joy wracked with a week of teen. Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient Stones, those tender Babes, Whom Envy hath immured within your Walls, Rough Cradle for such little pretty ones, Rude ragged Nurse, old sullen Playfellow, For tender Princes: use my Babies well; So foolish Sorrows bids your Stones farewell. Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham. My gracious Sovereign. Give me thy hand. Thus high, by thy advice, and thy assistance, Is King Richard seated: But shall we wear these Glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them? Still live they, and for ever let them last. Ah Buckingham, now do I play the Touch, To try if thou be currant Gold indeed: Young Edward lives, think now what I would speak. Say on my loving Lord. Why Buckingham, I say I would be King. Why so you are, my thrice-renowned Lord. Ha'? am I King? 'tis so: but Edward lives. True, Noble Prince.
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)
And I with all vnwillingneſſe will goe. O would to God, that the incluſiue Verge Of Golden Mettall, that muſt round my Brow, Were red hot Steele, to ſeare me to the Braines, Anoynted let me be with deadly Venome, And dye ere men can ſay, God ſaue the Queene. Goe, goe, poore ſoule, I enuie not thy glory, To feed my humor, wiſh thy ſelfe no harme. No: why? When he that is my Husband now, Came to me, as I follow'd Venries Corſe. When ſcarce the blood was well waſht from his hands, Which iſſued from my other Angell Husband, And that deare Saint, which then I weeping follow'd: O, when I ſay I look'd on Richards Face, This was my Wiſh: Be thou (quoth I) accurſt, For making me, ſo young, ſo old a Widow: And when thou wed'ſt, let ſorrow haunt thy Bed; And be thy Wife, if any be ſo mad, More miſerable, by the Life of thee, Then thou haſt made me, by my deare Lords death. Loe, ere I can repeat this Curſe againe, Within ſo ſmall a time, my Womans heart Groſſely grew captiue to his honey words, And prou'd the ſubiect of mine owne Soules Curſe, Which hitherto hath held mine eyes from reſt: For neuer yet one howre in his Bed Did I enioy the golden deaw of ſleepe, But with his timorous Dreames was ſtill awak'd. Beſides, he hates me for my Father Warwicke, And will (no doubt) ſhortly be rid of me. Poore heart adieu, I pittie thy complaining. No more, then with my ſoule I mourne for yours. Farewell, thou wofull welcommer of glory. Adieu, poore ſoule, that tak'ſt thy leaue of it. Go thou to Richmond, & good fortune guide thee, Go thou to Richard, and good Angels tend thee, Go thou to Sanctuarie, and good thoughts poſſeſſe thee, I to my Graue, where peace and reſt lye with mee. Eightie odde yeeres of ſorrow haue I ſeene, And each howres ioy wrackt with a weeke of teene. Stay, yet looke backe with me vnto the Tower. Pitty, you ancient Stones, thoſe tender Babes, Whom Enuie hath immur'd within your Walls, Rough Cradle for ſuch little prettie ones, Rude ragged Nurſe, old ſullen Play-fellow, For tender Princes: vſe my Babies well; So fooliſh Sorrowes bids your Stones farewell. Stand all apart. Couſin of Buckingham. My gracious Soueraigne. Giue me thy hand. Thus high, by thy aduice, and thy aſſiſtance, Is King Richard ſeated: But ſhall we weare theſe Glories for a day? Or ſhall they laſt, and we reioyce in them? Still liue they, and for euer let them laſt. Ah Buckingham, now doe I play the Touch, To trie if thou be currant Gold indeed: Young Edward liues, thinke now what I would ſpeake. Say on my louing Lord. Why Buckingham, I ſay I would be King. Why ſo you are, my thrice-renowned Lord. Ha? am I King? 'tis ſo: but Edward liues. True, Noble Prince.