Anonymous · published 1606 · first performed or written 1605 [1603-1606] (Annals) history; satire · Queen Anne's Men unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 510 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
A subject, of no subject, we present, for Nobody, is Nothing: Who of nothing can something make? t is a worke beyond the power of wit, And yet invention is ripe: A moral meaning you must then expect, grounded on lesser than a shadows shadow: Promising nothing where there wants a tongue; And deeds as few, be done by Nobody: Yet something, out of nothing, we will show, To gain your loves, to whom ourselves we owe. MY Lord Martianus. My Lord of Cornwell. Morrow. Morrow, You are sad my Lord. You melancholy. So, The state itself mourns in a rob of Woe. For the decease of Archigallo's virtues, I understand you Noble minded Cornwell, What generous spirit draws this British air, But droops at Archigallo's government. And reason Martianus, when the Sun Struggles to be delivered from the womb Of an obscure Eclipse, doth not the earth Mourn to behold his shine enveloped, O Corbonon when I did close thine eyes, I gave release to Britain's miseries. Good morrow to Prince Elydure. The same to you, and you, you are sad my Lords, your hearts I think are frosty, for your blood Seems crusted in your faces, like the dew In a September morn, how fares the king, Have you yet bid good morrow to his highness. The kings not stirring yet. Yonder's old Cornwell, come Vïgenius, we'll have some sport with him: Brother content. Good morrow to you brother Elydure. God morrow to Cornwell. Morrow old graybeard. My beards not so grey as your wits green. And why so. We shall ha' you come out now with some reason that was borne in my great grand sire's time. Would you would prove as honest princes as your great grandsire was, or half so wise as your elder brother was, there's a Couple of you, 'sfoot I am ashamed you should be of the blood royal. And why father winter. You do not know your state, there's Elydure Your elder brother next unto the King, He plies his book, when shall you see him trace Lascivious Archigallo through the streets, And fight with common hackster's hand to hand, To wrest from them their goods and dignities. You are to saucy Cornwell. Bridle your spirit. Your words are dangerous, good honest subject Old reverent statesman, faithful servitor, Do not traduce the King, he's virtuous Or say he tread somewhat besides the line Of virtuous government, his regality Brooks not taxation, king's greatest royalties Are that their subjects must applaud their deeds, As well as bear them their prerogatives. Are mural interponents twixt the world, And their proceedings. Well, well, I have served four kings, And none of all those four but would have ventured Their safeties on old Cornwall's constancy, But that's all one, now I am called a dotard, Go to, though now my limbs be stark and stiff, When Cornwall's dead Britain I know will want So strong a prop, Alas I needs must weep, And shed tears in abundance, when I think How Archigallo wrongs his government.
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)
A subiect, of no subiect, we present, for No-body, is Nothing: Who of nothing can something make? t is a worke beyond the power of wit, And yet inuention is ripe: A morrall meaning you must then expect, grounded on lesser then a shadowes shadow: Promising nothing wher there wants a toong; And deeds as few, be done by No-bodie: Yet something, out of nothing, we will shew, To gaine your loues, to whome our selues we owe. MY Lord Martianus. My Lord of Cornwell. Morrow. Morrow, You are sad my Lord. You melancholy. So, The state it selfe mournes in a robe of Wo. For the decease of Archigalloes vertues, I vnderstand you Noble minded Cornwell, What generous spirit drawes this Brittish ayre, But droops at Archigalloes gouernement. And reason Martianus, when the Sunne Struggles to be deliuered from the wombe Of an obscure Eclipse, doth not the earth Mourne to behold his shine envelloped, O Corbonon when I did close thine eyes, I gaue release to Britaines miseries. Good morrow to Prince Elydure. The same to you, and you, you are sad my Lordes, your harts I thinke are frosty, for your blood Seemes crvsted in your faces, like the dew In a September morne, how fares the king, Haue you yet bid good morrow to his highnes. The kings not stirring yet. Yonders old Cornwell, come Vïgenius, Weele haue some sport with him: Brother content. Good morrow to you brother Elydure. God morrow to Cornwell. Morrow old gray-beard. My beards not so gray as your wits greene. And why so. We shall ha you come out now with some reason that was borne in my great grand sires time. Would you would proue as honest princes as your great graundsire was, or halfe so wise as your elder brother was, theres a Couple of you, Sfoote I am ashamed you should be of the blood royall. And why father vvinter. You doe not knovv your state, theres Elydure Your elder brother next vnto the King, He plies his booke, vvhen shall you see him trace Lasciuious Archigallo through the streets, And fight with common hacksters hand to hand, To wrest from them their goods and dignityes. You are to saucy Cornwell. Bridle your spirit. Your words are dangerous, good honest subiect Old reuerent states-man, faithful seruitor, Doe not traduce the King, hees vertuous Or say he tread somewhat besides the line Of vertuous gouernment, his regality Brookes not taxation, kings greatest royalties Are that their subiects must aplaud their deedes, As well as beare them their prerogatiues. Are murall interponents twixt the world, And their proceedings. Well, well, I haue serued foure kings, And none of all those foure but would haue ventured Their safeties on old Cornwels constancy, But thats all one, now I am cald a dotard, Go to, though now my limbes be starke and stiffe, When Cornwels dead Brittayne I know will want So strong a prop, Alasse I needs must weepe, And shed teares in abundance, when I thinke How Archigallo wrongs his gouernment.