Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1591 [1590-1591] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 526 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power: I'll tell thee Hubert, half my power this night Passing these Flats, are taken by the Tide, These Lincolne-Washes have devoured them, Myself, well mounted, hardly have escaped. Away before: Conduct me to the king, I doubt he will be dead, or ere I come. It is too late, the life of all his blood Is touched, corruptibly: and his pure brain (Which some suppose the souls frail dwelling house) Doth by the idle Comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality. His Highness yet doth speak, & holds belief, That being brought into the open air, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him. Let him be brought into the Orchard here: Doth he still rage? He is more patiented Than when you left him; even now he sung. Oh vanity of sickness: fierce extremes In their continuance, will not feel themselves. Death having prayed upon the outward parts Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now Against the wind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Which in their throng, and press to that last hold, Counfound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing: I am the Symer to this pale faint Swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. Be of good comfort (Prince) for you are borne To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless, and so rude. I marry, now my soul hath elbow room, It would not out at windows, nor at doors, There is so hot a summer in my bosom, That all my bowels crumble up to dust: I am a scribbled form drawn with a pen Upon a Parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up. How fares your Majesty? Poisoned, ill fare: dead, forsook, cast off, And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust his icy fingers in my maw; Nor let my kingdom's Rivers take their course Through my burned bosom: nor entreat the North To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips, And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much, I beg cold comfort: and you are so strait And so ingrateful, you deny me that. Oh that there were some virtue in my tears, That might relieve you. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell, and there the poison Is, as a fiend, confined to tyrannize, On unrepreevable condemned blood. Oh, I am scalded with my violent motion And spleen of speed, to see your Majesty. Oh Cousin, thou art come to set mine eye: The tackle of my heart, is cracked and burnt, And all the shrowds wherewith my life should sail, Are turned to one thread, one little hair: My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered, And then all this thou seest, is but a clod, And module of confounded royalty.
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)
With-hold thine indignation, mighty heauen, And tempt vs not to beare aboue our power: Ile tell thee Hubert, halfe my power this night Paſsing theſe Flats, are taken by the Tide, Theſe Lincolne-Waſhes haue deuoured them, My ſelfe, well mounted, hardly haue eſcap'd. Away before: Conduct me to the king, I doubt he will be dead, or ere I come. It is too late, the life of all his blood Is touch'd, corruptibly: and his pure braine (Which ſome ſuppoſe the ſoules fraile dwelling houſe) Doth by the idle Comments that it makes, Fore-tell the ending of mortality. His Highneſſe yet doth ſpeak, & holds beleefe, That being brought into the open ayre, It would allay the burning qualitie Of that fell poiſon which aſſayleth him. Let him be brought into the Orchard heere: Doth he ſtill rage? He is more patient Then when you left him; euen now he ſung. Oh vanity of ſickneſſe: fierce extreames In their continuance, will not feele themſelues. Death hauing praide vpon the outward parts Leaues them inuiſible, and his ſeige is now Againſt the winde, the which he prickes and wounds With many legions of ſtrange fantaſies, Which in their throng, and preſſe to that laſt hold, Counfound themſelues. 'Tis ſtrange yt death ſhold ſing: I am the Symer to this pale faint Swan, Who chaunts a dolefull hymne to his owne death, And from the organ-pipe of frailety ſings His ſoule and body to their laſting reſt. Be of good comfort (Prince) for you are borne To ſet a forme vpon that indigeſt Which he hath left ſo ſhapeleſſe, and ſo rude. I marrie, now my ſoule hath elbow roome, It would not out at windowes, nor at doores, There is ſo hot a ſummer in my boſome, That all my bowels crumble vp to duſt: I am a ſcribled forme drawne with a pen Vpon a Parchment, and againſt this fire Do I ſhrinke vp. How fares your Maieſty? Poyſon'd, ill fare: dead, forſooke, caſt off, And none of you will bid the winter come To thruſt his ycie fingers in my maw; Nor let my kingdomes Riuers take their courſe Through my burn'd boſome: nor intreat the North To make his bleake windes kiſſe my parched lips, And comfort me with cold. I do not aske you much, I begge cold comfort: and you are ſo ſtraight And ſo ingratefull, you deny me that. Oh that there were ſome vertue in my teares, That might releeue you. The ſalt in them is hot. Within me is a hell, and there the poyſon Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize, On vnrepreeuable condemned blood. Oh, I am ſcalded with my violent motion And ſpleene of ſpeede, to ſee your Maieſty. Oh Cozen, thou art come to ſet mine eye: The tackle of my heart, is crack'd and burnt, And all the ſhrowds wherewith my life ſhould ſaile, Are turned to one thred, one little haire: My heart hath one poore ſtring to ſtay it by, Which holds but till thy newes be vttered, And then all this thou ſeeſt, is but a clod, And module of confounded royalty.