Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1597 [c.1597-1598] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 490 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.
Now comes in the sweetest Morsel of the night, and we must hence, and leave it unpickt. More knocking at the door? How now? what's the matter? You must away to Court, Sir, presently, A dozen Captains stay at door for you. Pay the Musicians, Sirrah: farewell Hostess, farewell Dol. You see (my good Wenches) how men of Merit are sought after: the undeseruer may sleep, when the man of Action is called on. Farewell good Wenches: if I be not sent away post, I will see you again, ere I go. I cannot speak: if my heart be not ready to burst— Well (sweet Iacke) have a care of thyself. Farewell, farewell. Well, far thee well: I have known thee these twenty nine years, come Pescod-time: but an honester, and truer-hearted man— Well, far thee well. Mistress Tearsheet. What's the matter? Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to my Master. Oh run Dol, run: run, good Dol. Go, call the Earls of Surrey, and of Warwick: But ere they come, bid them ore-reade these Letters, And well consider of them: make good speed. How many thousand of my poorest Subjects Are at this hour asleep? O Sleep, O gentle Sleep, Nature's soft Nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my Senses in Forgetfulness? Why rather (Sleep) liest thou in smoky Cribs, Upon uneasy Pallads stretching thee, And huisht with bussing Night, flies to thy slumber, Then in the perfumed Chambers of the Great? Under the Canopies of costly State, And lulled with sounds of sweetest Melody? O thou dull God, why liest thou with the vild, In loathsome Beds, and leav'st the Kingly Couch, A Watch-case, or a common Larum-Bell? Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy Mast, Seal up the Shipboys Eyes, and rock his Brains, In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge, And in the visitation of the Winds, Who take the Ruffian Billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaff'ning Clamours in the slippery Clouds, That with the hurley, Death itself awakes? Canst thou (O partial Sleep) give thy Repose To the wet Sea-Boy, in an hour so rude: And in the calmest, and most stillest Night, With all appliances, and means to boot, Deny it to a King? Then happy Lowe, lie down, Uneasy lies the Head, that wears a Crown. Many good-morrowes to your Majesty. Is it good-morrow, Lords? 'Tis One a Clock, and past. Why then good-morrow to you all (my Lords:) Have you read o'er the Letters that I sent you? We have (my Liege.) Then you perceive the Body of our Kingdom, How foul it is: what rank Diseases grow, And with what danger, near the Heart of it? It is but as a Body, yet distempered, Which to his former strength may be restored, With good advice, and little Medicine: My Lord Northumberland will soon be cooled.
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)
Now comes in the ſweeteſt Morſell of the night, and wee muſt hence, and leaue it vnpickt. More knocking at the doore? How now? what's the matter? You muſt away to Court, Sir, preſently, A dozen Captaines ſtay at doore for you. Pay the Muſitians, Sirrha: farewell Hoſteſſe, farewell Dol. You ſee (my good Wenches) how men of Merit are ſought after: the vndeſeruer may ſleepe, when the man of Action is call'd on. Farewell good Wenches: if I be not ſent away poſte, I will ſee you againe, ere I goe. I cannot ſpeake: if my heart bee not readie to burſt— Well (ſweete Iacke) haue a care of thy ſelfe. Farewell, farewell. Well, fare thee well: I haue knowne thee theſe twentie nine yeeres, come Peſcod-time: but an honeſter, and truer-hearted man— Well, fare thee well. Miſtris Teare-ſheet. What's the matter? Bid Miſtris Teare-ſheet come to my Maſter. Oh runne Dol, runne: runne, good Dol. Goe, call the Earles of Surrey, and of Warwick: But ere they come, bid them ore-reade theſe Letters, And well conſider of them: make good ſpeed. How many thouſand of my pooreſt Subiects Are at this howre aſleepe? O Sleepe, O gentle Sleepe, Natures ſoft Nurſe, how haue I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids downe, And ſteepe my Sences in Forgetfulneſſe? Why rather (Sleepe) lyeſt thou in ſmoakie Cribs, Vpon vneaſie Pallads ſtretching thee, And huiſht with buſſing Night, flyes to thy ſlumber, Then in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great? Vnder the Canopies of coſtly State, And lull'd with ſounds of ſweeteſt Melodie? O thou dull God, why lyeſt thou with the vilde, In loathſome Beds, and leau'ſt the Kingly Couch, A Watch-caſe, or a common Larum-Bell? Wilt thou, vpon the high and giddie Maſt, Seale vp the Ship-boyes Eyes, and rock his Braines, In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge, And in the viſitation of the Windes, Who take the Ruffian Billowes by the top, Curling their monſtrous heads, and hanging them With deaff'ning Clamors in the ſlipp'ry Clouds, That with the hurley, Death it ſelfe awakes? Canſt thou (O partiall Sleepe) giue thy Repoſe To the wet Sea-Boy, in an houre ſo rude: And in the calmeſt, and moſt ſtilleſt Night, With all appliances, and meanes to boote, Deny it to a King? Then happy Lowe, lye downe, Vneaſie lyes the Head, that weares a Crowne. Many good-morrowes to your Maieſtie. Is it good-morrow, Lords? 'Tis One a Clock, and paſt. Why then good-morrow to you all (my Lords:) Haue you read o're the Letters that I ſent you? We haue (my Liege.) Then you perceiue the Body of our Kingdome, How foule it is: what ranke Diſeaſes grow, And with what danger, neere the Heart of it? It is but as a Body, yet diſtemper'd, Which to his former ſtrength may be reſtor'd, With good aduice, and little Medicine: My Lord Northumberland will ſoone be cool'd.