Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1605 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 514 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.
O Sir, to wilful men, The injuries that they themselves procure, Must be their Schoolmasters: shut up your doors, He is attended with a desperate train, And what they may incense him too, being apt, To have his ear abused, wisdom bids fear. Shut up your doors my Lord, 'tis a wiled night, My Regan counsels well: come out o'th' storm. Who's there besides foul weather? One minded like the weather, most unquietly. I know you: Where's the King? Contending with the fretful Elements; Bids the wind blow the Earth into the Sea, Or swell the curled Waters 'boue the main, That things might change, or cease. But who is with him? None but the Fool, who labours to out-iest His heartstruck injuries. Sir, I do know you, And dare upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division (Although as yet the face of it is covered With mutual cunning) 'twixt Albany, and Cornwall: Who have, as who have not, that their great Stars Throned and set high; Servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the Spies and Speculations Intelligent of our State. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs, and pack of the Dukes, Or the hard Rhine which both of them hath borne Against the old kind King; or something deeper, Whereof (perchance) these are but furnish. I will talk further with you. No, do not: For confirmation that I am much more Than my outwall; open this Purse, and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia, (As fear not but you shall) show her this Ring, And she will tell you who that Fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this Storm, I will go seek the King. Give me your hand, Have you no more to say? Few words, but to effect more than all yet; That when we have found the King, in which your pain That way, I'll this: He that first lights on him, Holla the other. Blow winds, & crack your cheeks; Rage, blow You Cataracts, and Hyrricano's spout, Till you have drenched our Steeples, drown the Cocks. You Sulphurous and Thought-executing Fires, Vaunt-curriors of Oake-cleaving Thunderbolts, singe my white head. And thou all-shaking Thunder, Strike flat the thick Rotundity o' th' world, Crack Nature's moulds, all germaines spill at once That makes ingrateful Man. O Nunkle, Court holy-water in a dry house, is better than this Rain-water out o' door. Good Nunkle, in, ask thy Daughter's blessing, here's a night pities neither Wisemen, nor Fools. Rumble thy belly full: spit Fire, spout Raine: Nor Rain, Winde, Thunder, Fire are my Daughters; I tax not you, you Elements with unkindness. I never gave you Kingdom, called you Children; You own me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure. here I stand your Slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man: But yet I call you Servile Ministers, That will with two pernicious Daughters join Your high-engendered Battles, 'gainst a head So old, and white as this. O, ho! 'tis foul.
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)
O Sir, to wilfull men, The iniuries that they themſelues procure, Muſt be their Schoole-Maſters: ſhut vp your doores, He is attended with a deſperate traine, And what they may incenſe him too, being apt, To haue his eare abus'd, wiſedome bids feare. Shut vp your ores my Lord, 'tis a wil'd night, My Regan counſels well: come out oth' ſtorme. Who's there beſides foule weather? One minded like the weather, moſt vnquietly. I know you: Where's the King? Contending with the fretfull Elements; Bids the winde blow the Earth into the Sea, Or ſwell the curled Waters 'boue the Maine, That things might change, or ceaſe. But who is with him? None but the Foole, who labours to out-ieſt His heart-ſtrooke iniuries. Sir, I do know you, And dare vpon the warrant of my note Commend a deere thing to you. There is diuiſion (Although as yet the face of it is couer'd With mutuall cunning) 'twixt Albany, and Cornwall: Who haue, as who haue not, that their great Starres Thron'd and ſet high; Seruants, who ſeeme no leſſe, Which are to France the Spies and Speculations Intelligent of our State. What hath bin ſeene, Either in ſnuffes, and packings of the Dukes, Or the hard Reine which both of them hath borne Againſt the old kinde King; or ſomething deeper, Whereof (perchance) theſe are but furniſhings. I will talke further with you. No, do not: For confirmation that I am much more Then my out-wall; open this Purſe, and take What it containes. If you ſhall ſee Cordela, (As feare not but you ſhall) ſhew her this Ring, And ſhe will tell you who that Fellow is That yet you do not know. Fye on this Storme, I will go ſeeke the King. Giue me your hand, Haue you no more to ſay? Few words, but to effect more then all yet; That when we haue found the King, in which your pain That way, Ile this: He that firſt lights on him, Holla the other. Blow windes, & crack your cheeks; Rage, blow You Cataracts, and Hyrricano's ſpout, Till you haue drench'd our Steeples, drown the Cockes. You Sulph'rous and Thought-executing Fires, Vaunt-curriors of Oake-cleauing Thunder-bolts, Sindge my white head. And thou all-ſhaking Thunder, Strike flat the thicke Rotundity o' th' world, Cracke Natures moulds, all germaines ſpill at once That makes ingratefull Man. O Nunkle, Court holy-water in a dry houſe, is better then this Rain-water out o' doore. Good Nunkle, in, aske thy Daughters bleſſing, heere's a night pitties neither Wiſemen, nor Fooles. Rumble thy belly full: ſpit Fire, ſpowt Raine: Nor Raine, Winde, Thunder, Fire are my Daughters; I taxe not you, you Elements with vnkindneſſe. I neuer gaue you Kingdome, call'd you Children; You owe me no ſubſcription. Then let fall Your horrible pleaſure. Heere I ſtand your Slaue, A poore, infirme, weake, and diſpis'd old man: But yet I call you Seruile Miniſters, That will with two pernicious Daughters ioyne Your high-engender'd Battailes, 'gainſt a head So old, and white as this. O, ho! 'tis foule.