Marston, John · published 1602 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 497 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
STOP, stop Antonio, stay Antonio. Vain breath, vain breath, Antonio's lost; He can not find himself, not seize himself. Alas, this that you see, is not Antonio, His spirit hovers in Piero's Court, Hurling about his agile faculties, To apprehend the sight of Mellida: But poor, poor soul, wanting apt instruments To speak or see, stands dumb and blind, sad spirit, Rolled up in gloomy clouds as black as air, Through which the rusty coach of Night is drawn: 'tis so, i'll give you instance that 'tis so. Conceit you me. As having clasped a rose Within my palm, the rose being ta'en away, My hand retains a little breath of sweet: So may man's trunk; his spirit slipped away, Holds still a faint perfume of his sweet guest. 'tis so; for when discursive powers fly out, And roam in progress, through the bounds of heaven, The soul itself gallops along with them, As chieftain of this winged troup of thought, Whilst the dull lodge of spirit standeth waste, Until the soul return from What was't I said? O, this is nought, but speckling melancholy. I have been That Morpheus tender skinp cozen germane Bear with me good Mellida: clod upon clod thus fall. Hell is beneath; yet heaven is over all. Come Lucio, let's go eat: what hast thou got? Roots, roots? alas, they are seeded, new cut up. O, thou hast wronged Nature, Lucio: But boots not much; thou but pursuest the world, That cuts off virtue, 'fore it comes to growth, lest it should seed, and so o'errun her son, Dull purblind error. Give me water, boy. There is no poison in't I hope, they say That lurks in massy plate: and yet the earth Is so infected with a general plague, That he's most wise, that thinks there's no man fool: Right prudent, that esteems no creature just: Great policy the least things to mistrust. Give me Assay How we mock greatness now! A strong conceit is rich, so most men deem: If not to be, 'tis comfort yet to seem. Why man, I never was a Prince till now. 'tis not the bared pate, the bended knees, Guilt tipstaves, tyrian purple, chairs of state, Troops of pied butterflies, that flutter still In greatness summer, that confirm a prince: 'tis not the unsavoury breath of multitudes, Shouting and clapping, with confused din; That makes a Prince. No Lucio, he's a king, A true right king, that dares do aught, save wrong, Fears nothing mortal, but to be unjust, Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs Of spongy Sycophants: Who stands unmoved, Despite the justling of opinion: Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng That strive to press his quiet out of him: Who sits upon Ioues footstool, as I do, Adoring, not affecting, majesty: Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown Of clear content: this, Lucio, is a king. And of this empire, every man's possessed, That's worth his soul.
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)
STOP, stop Antonio, stay Antonio. Vaine breath, vaine breath, Antonio's lost; He can not finde himselfe, not seize himselfe. Alas, this that you see, is not Antonio, His spirit houers in Piero's Court, Hurling about his agill faculties, To apprehend the sight of Mellida: But poore, poore soule, wanting apt instruments To speake or see, stands dumbe and blinde, sad spirit, Roul'd vp in gloomie clouds as black as ayer, Through which the rustie coach of Night is drawne: Tis so, ile giue you instance that tis so. Conceipt you me. As hauing clasp't a rose Within my palme, the rose being tane away, My hand retaines a little breath of sweete: So may mans trunke; his spirit slipt awaie, Holds still a faint perfume of his sweet ghest. Tis so; for when discursiue powers fle out, And rome in progresse, through the boūds of heauen, The soule it selfe gallops along with them, As chiefetaine of this winged troope of thought, Whilst the dull lodge of spirit standeth waste, Vntill the soule returne from What wast I said? O, this is naught, but speckling melancholie. I haue beene That Morpheus tender skinp Cosen germane Beare with me good Mellida: clod vpon clod thus fall. Hell is beneath; yet heauen is ouer all. Come Lucio, lets goe eat: what hast thou got? Rootes, rootes? alas, they are seeded, new cut vp. O, thou hast wronged Nature, Lucio: But bootes not much; thou but pursu'st the world, That cuts off vertue, fore it comes to growth, Least it should seed, and so orerun her sonne, Dull pore-blinde error. Giue me water, boy. There is no poison in't I hope, they say That lukes in massie plate: and yet the earth Is so infected with a generall plague, That hee's most wise, that thinks there's no man foole: Right prudent, that esteemes no creature iust: Great policy the least things to mistrust. Giue me Assay How we mock greatnesse now! A strong conceipt is rich, so most men deeme: If not to be, tis comfort yet to seeme. Why man, I neuer was a Prince till now. Tis not the bared pate, the bended knees, Guilt tipstaues, Tyrrian purple, chaires of state, Troopes of pide butterflies, that flutter still In greatnesse summer, that confirme a prince: Tis not the vnsauory breath of multitudes, Showting and clapping, with confused dinne; That makes a Prince. No Lucio, he's a king, A true right king, that dares doe aught, saue wrong, Feares nothing mortall, but to be vniust, Who is not blowne vp with the flattering puffes Of spungy Sycophants: Who stands vnmou'd, Despight the iustling of opinion: Who can enioy himselfe, maugre the throng That striue to presse his quiet out of him: Who sits vpon Ioues footestoole, as I doe, Adoring, not affecting, maiestie: Whose brow is wreathed with the siluer crowne Of cleare content: this, Lucio, is a king. And of this empire, euery man's possest, That's worth his soule.