Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 525 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
We will ourselves provide: Most holy and Religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your Majesty. The single And peculiar life is bound With all the strength and Armour of the mind, To keep itself from noyance: but much more, That Spirit, upon whose spirit depends and rests The lives of many, the cease of Majesty Dies not alone; but like a Gulf doth draw What's near it, with it. It is a massy wheel Fixed on the Somnet of the highest Mount, To whose huge Spokes, ten thousand lesser things Are mortized and adjoined: which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence Attends the boisterous Ruin. Never alone Did the King sigh, but with a general groan. Arm you, I pray you to this speedy Voyage; For we will Fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too freefooted. We will haste us. My Lord, he's going to his Mother's Closet: Behind the Arras I'll convey myself To hear the Process. I'll warrant she'll tax him home, And as you said, and wisely was it said, 'Tis meet that some more audience than a Mother, Since Nature makes them partial, should o're-heare The speech of vantage. Ear you well my Liege, I'll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know. Thanks dear my Lord. Oh my offence is rank, it smells to heaven, It hath the primall eldest curse upon't, A Brother's murder. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt, defeats my strong intent, And like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect; what if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with Brother's blood, Is there not Rain enough in the sweet Heavens To wash it white as Snow? Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of Offence? And what's in Prayer, but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up, My fault is past. But oh, what form of Prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul Murder: That cannot be, since I am still possessed Of those effects for which I did the Murder. My Crown, mine own Ambition, and my Queen: May one be pardoned, and retain th' offence? In the corrupted currants of this world, Offences gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself Buys out the Law; but 'tis not so above, There is no shuffling, there the Action lies In his true Nature, and we ourselves compelled Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what Repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? Oh wretched state! Oh bosom, black as death! Oh limed soul, that struggling to be free, Art more engaged: Help Angels, make assay: Bow stubborn knees, and heart with strings of Steel, Be soft as sinews of the newborn Babe, All may be well.
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)
We will our ſelues prouide: Moſt holie and Religious feare it is To keepe thoſe many many bodies ſafe That liue and feede vpon your Maieſtie. The ſingle And peculiar life is bound With all the ſtrength and Armour of the minde, To keepe it ſelfe from noyance: but much more, That Spirit, vpon whoſe ſpirit depends and reſts The liues of many, the ceaſe of Maieſtie Dies not alone; but like a Gulfe doth draw What's neere it, with it. It is a maſſie wheele Fixt on the Somnet of the higheſt Mount, To whoſe huge Spoakes, ten thouſand leſſer things Are mortiz'd and adioyn'd: which when it falles, Each ſmall annexment, pettie conſequence Attends the boyſtrous Ruine. Neuer alone Did the King ſighe, but with a generall grone. Arme you, I pray you to this ſpeedie Voyage; For we will Fetters put vpon this feare, Which now goes too free-footed. We will haſte vs. My Lord, he's going to his Mothers Cloſſet: Behinde the Arras Ile conuey my ſelfe To heare the Proceſſe. Ile warrant ſhee'l tax him home, And as you ſaid, and wiſely was it ſaid, 'Tis meete that ſome more audience then a Mother, Since Nature makes them partiall, ſhould o're-heare The ſpeech of vantage. Eare you well my Liege, Ile call vpon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know. Thankes deere my Lord. Oh my offence is ranke, it ſmels to heauen, It hath the primall eldeſt curſe vpon't, A Brothers murther. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as ſharpe as will: My ſtronger guilt, defeats my ſtrong intent, And like a man to double buſineſſe bound, I ſtand in pauſe where I ſhall firſt begin, And both neglect; what if this curſed hand Were thicker then it ſelfe with Brothers blood, Is there not Raine enough in the ſweet Heauens To waſh it white as Snow? Whereto ſerues mercy, But to confront the viſage of Offence? And what's in Prayer, but this two-fold force, To be fore-ſtalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being downe? Then Ile looke vp, My fault is paſt. But oh, what forme of Prayer Can ſerue my turne? Forgiue me my foule Murther: That cannot be, ſince I am ſtill poſſeſt Of thoſe effects for which I did the Murther. My Crowne, mine owne Ambition, and my Queene: May one be pardon'd, and retaine th' offence? In the corrupted currants of this world, Offences gilded hand may ſhoue by Iuſtice, And oft 'tis ſeene, the wicked prize it ſelfe Buyes out the Law; but 'tis not ſo aboue, There is no ſhuffling, there the Action lyes In his true Nature, and we our ſelues compell'd Euen to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To giue in euidence. What then? What reſts? Try what Repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? Oh wretched ſtate! Oh boſome, blacke as death! Oh limed ſoule, that ſtrugling to be free, Art more ingag'd: Helpe Angels, make aſſay: Bow ſtubborne knees, and heart with ſtrings of Steele, Be ſoft as ſinewes of the new-borne Babe, All may be well.