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 · 522 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.
Not so much noise (my Lords) Sweet Prince speak low. The King, your Father, is disposed to sleep. Let us withdraw into the other Room. Wil't please your Grace to go along with us? No: I will sit, and watch here, by the King. Why doth the Crown lie there, upon his Pillow, Being so troublesome a Bed-fellow? O polished Perturbation! Golden Care! That keep'st the Ports of Slumber open wide, To many a watchful Night: sleep with it now, Yet not so sound, and halt so deeply sweet, As he whose Brow (with homely Biggin bound) Snores out the Watch of Night. O Majesty! When thou dost pinch thy Bearer, thou dost sit Like a rich Armour, worn in heat of day, That scaldest with safety: by his Gates of breath, There lies a dowlney feather, which stirs not: Did he suspire, that light and weightless dowlne Perforce must move. My gracious Lord, my Father, This sleep is sound indeed: this is a sleep, That from this Golden Rigoll hath divorced So many English Kings. Thy due, from me, Is tears, and heavy Sorrows of the Blood, Which Nature, Love, and filial tenderness, Shall (O dear Father) pay thee plenteously. My due, from thee, is this Imperial Crown, Which (as immediate from thy Place, and Blood) Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits, Which Heaven shall guard: And put the world's whole strength into one giant Arm, It shall not force this Lineal Honour from me. This from thee, will I to mine leave, As 'tis left to me. Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence. Doth the King call? What would your Majesty? how fares your Grace? Why did you leave me here alone (my Lords?) We left the Prince (my Brother) here (my Liege) Who undertook to sit and watch by you. The Prince of Wales? where is he? let me see him. This door is open, he is gone this way. He came not through the Chamber where we stayed. Where is the Crown? who took it from my Pillow? When we withdrew (my Liege) we left it here. The Prince hath ta'en it hence: Go seek him out. Is he so hasty, that he doth suppose My sleep, my death? Find him (my Lord of Warwick) Chide him hither: this part of his conjoines With my disease, and helps to end me. See Sons, what things you are: How quickly Nature falls into revolt, When Gold becomes her Object? For this, the foolish over-careful Fathers Have broke their sleeps with thoughts, Their brains with care, their bones with industry. For this, they have engrossed and piled up The cankered heaps of strange-atchieued Gold: For this, they have been thoughtful, to invest Their Sons with Arts, and Martial Exercises: When, like the Bee, culling from every flower The virtuous Sweets, our Thighs packed, with Wax, Our Mouths with Honey, we bring it to the Hive; And like the Bees, are murdered for our pains. This bitter taste yields his engrossements, To the ending Father. Now, where is he, that will not stay so long, Till his Friend Sickness hath determined me?
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)
Not ſo much noyſe (my Lords) Sweet Prince ſpeake lowe. The King, your Father, is diſpos'd to ſleepe. Let vs with-draw into the other Roome. Wil't pleaſe your Grace to goe along with vs? No: I will ſit, and watch here, by the King. Why doth the Crowne lye there, vpon his Pillow, Being ſo troubleſome a Bed-fellow? O polliſh'd Perturbation! Golden Care! That keep'ſt the Ports of Slumber open wide, To many a watchfull Night: ſleepe with it now, Yet not ſo ſound, and halte ſo deepely ſweete, As hee whoſe Brow (with homely Biggen bound) Snores out the Watch of Night. O Maieſtie! When thou do'ſt pinch thy Bearer, thou do'ſt ſit Like a rich Armor, worne in heat of day, That ſcald'ſt with ſafetie: by his Gates of breath, There lyes a dowlney feather, which ſtirres not: Did hee ſuſpit, that light and weightleſſe dowlne Perforce muſt moue. My gracious Lord, my Father, This ſleepe is ſound indeede: this is a ſleepe, That from this Golden Rigoll hath diuorc'd So many Engliſh Kings. Thy due, from me, Is Teare, and heauie Sorrowes of the Blood, Which Nature, Loue, and filiall tenderneſſe, Shall (O deare Father) pay thee plenteouſly. My due, from thee, is this Imperiall Crowne, Which (as immediate from thy Place, and Blood) Deriues it ſelfe to me. Loe, heere it ſits, Which Heauen ſhall guard: And put the worlds whole ſtrength into one gyant Arme, It ſhall not force this Lineall Honor from me. This from thee, will I to mine leaue, As 'tis left to me. Warwicke, Glouceſter, Clarence. Doth the King call? What would your Maieſtie? how fares your Grace? Why did you leaue me here alone (my Lords?) We left the Prince (my Brother) here (my Liege) Who vndertooke to ſit and watch by you. The Prince of Wales? where is hee? let mee ſee him. This doore is open, hee is gone this way. Hee came not through the Chamber where wee ſtayd. Where is the Crowne? who tooke it from my Pillow? When wee with-drew (my Liege) wee left it heere. The Prince hath ta'ne it hence: Goe ſeeke him out. Is hee ſo haſtie, that hee doth ſuppoſe My ſleepe, my death? Finde him (my Lord of Warwick) Chide him hither: this part of his conioynes With my diſeaſe, and helpes to end me. See Sonnes, what things you are: How quickly Nature falls into reuolt, When Gold becomes her Obiect? For this, the fooliſh ouer-carefull Fathers Haue broke their ſleepes with thoughts, Their braines with care, their bones with induſtry. For this, they haue ingroſſed and pyl'd vp The canker'd heapes of ſtrange-atchieued Gold: For this, they haue beene thoughtfull, to inueſt Their Sonnes with Arts, and Martiall Exerciſes: When, like the Bee, culling from euery flower The vertuous Sweetes, our Thighes packt, with Wax, Our Mouthes with Honey, wee bring it to the Hiue; And like the Bees, are murthered for our paines. This bitter taſte yeelds his engroſſements, To the ending Father. Now, where is hee, that will not ſtay ſo long, Till his Friend Sickneſſe hath determin'd me?