The Famous History of Sir Thomas Wyatt · chunk 2 of 22
Heywood, Thomas / Dekker, Thomas / Chettle, Henry / Webster, John · published 1607 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) history · Worcester's Men unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 467 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
Our Cousen King is dead. Alas, how small an Urn contains a King? He that ruled all, even with his princely breath, Is forced to stoop now to the stroke of death. Heard you not the proclamation? I hear of it, and I give credit to it What great men fear to be, Their fears grow greater. Our Fathers grow ambitious And would force us sail in mighty tempests, And are not Lords of what they do possess. Are not thy thoughts as great? I have no thoughts so rank, so grown to head, As are our Father's pride. Troth I do enjoy a Kingdom having thee. And so my pain be prosperous in that, What care I though a Sheepcote be my Palace Or fairest roof of honour. See how thy blood keeps course with mine: Thou must be a Queen, ay me! a Queen, The flattering bells that shrilly sound At the king's funeral with hollow hearts, Will cowardly call thee Sovereign: For indeed thou wouldst prove but an Usurper. Who would wear fetters though they were all of gold? Or to be sick, though his faint brows For a wearing Nightcap, wore a Crown. Thou must assume, a title that goes on many feet, But 'tis an office, wherein the hearts of Scholars, And of Soldiers will depend upon thy Hearse. Were this rightly scanned, we scarce should find a King in any Land. Honour and happy reign Attend the new Majesty of England. To whom my Lord bends this your ave. To your grace dread Sovereign, You are by the Kings will, and the consent Of all the Lords, chosen for our Queen. O God! methinks you sing my death, In parts of musics loudness, 'tis not my turn to rise. The voice of the whole Landspeakes in my tongue It is concluded your Majesty must ride, From hence unto the Tower: there to stay Until your Coronation. O God! Why sighs your Majesty? My Lord and Father, I pray tell me, Was your Father's Father ere a King? Never, and it like your grace. Would I might still continue of his line, Not travel in the clouds. It is often seen, the heated blood That covets to be royal, leaves off ere it be noble, My learned careful King, what must we go? We must. Then it must be so. Set forward then. The Tower will be a place of ample state, Some lodgings in it, will like dead men's skulls, Remember us of frailty. We are led with pomp to prison, O prophetic soul. Lo we ascend into our chairs of State, Like funeral Coffins, in some funeral Pomp descending to their graves. But we must on. How can we fare well, to keep our Court: Where Prisoners keep their cave?
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)
Our Cousen King is dead. Alasse, how small an Vrne containes a King? He that ruld all, euen with his princely beath, Is forc'd to stoope now to the stroake of death. Heard you not the proclamation? I heare of it, and I giue credit to it What great men feare to be, Their feares grow greater. Our Fathers grow ambitious And would force vs saile in mightie tempests, And are not Lordes of what they doe possesse. Are not thy thoughts as great? I haue no thoughts so ranke, so growne to head, As are our Fathers pride. Troth I doe inioy a Kingdome hauing thee. And so my paine be prosperous in that, What care I though a Sheep-cote be my Pallace Or fairest roofe of honour. See how thy blood keepes course with mine: Thou must be a Queene, aye me! a Queene, The flattering belles that shrilly sound At the Kings funerall with hollow heartes, Will cowardly call thee Soueraigne: For indeed thou wouldst prooue but an Vsurper. Who would weare fetters though they were all of golde? Or to be sicke, though his faint browes For a wearing Night-cap, wore a Crowne. Thou must assume, a tytle that goes on many feet, But tis an office, wherein the heartes of Schollers, And of Souldiers will depend vppon thy Hearse. Were this rightly scand, Wee scarce should finde a King in any Land. Honor and happy reigne Attend the new Maiestie of England. To whome my Lord bends this your aue. To your grace dread Soueraigne, You are by the Kings will, and the consent Of all the Lords, chosen for our Queene. O God! me thinkes you sing my death, In parts of musickes lowdnes, Tis not my turne to rise. The voice of the whole Land-speakes in my tongue It is concluded your Maiestie must ride, From hence vnto the Tower: there to stay Vntill your Coronation. O God! Why sighes your Maiestie? My Lord and Father, I pray tell me, Was your Fathers Father ere a King? Neuer, and it like your grace. Would I might still continue of his lyne, Not trauell in the cloudes. It is often seene, the heated blood That couets to be royall, leaues off ere it be noble, My learned carefull King, what must we goe? We must. Then it must be so. Set forward then. The Towre will be a place of ample state, Some lodgings in it, will like dead mens sculs, Remember vs of frailty. We are led with pompe to prison, O propheticke soule. Lo we ascend into our chaires of State, Like funerall Coffins, in some funerall Pompe descending to their graues. But we must on. How can we fare well, to keep our Court: Where Prisoners keepe their caue?