Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
Ha', good Father, Thou seest the Heavens, as troubled with man's Act, Threatens his bloody Stage: by th' Clock 'tis Day, And yet dark Night strangles the travailing Lamp: Is't Night's predominance, or the Day's shame, That Darkness does the face of Earth entomb, When living Light should kiss it? 'Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done: On Tuesday last, A Falcon to wring in her pride of place, Was by a Mowsing Owl hawkt at, and killed. And Duncans Horses, (A thing most strange, and certain) Beauteous, and swift, the Minions of their Race, Turned wild in nature, broke their sells, flung out, Contending 'gainst Obedience, as they would Make War with Mankind. 'Tis said, they eat each other. They did so: To th' amazement of mine eyes that looked upon't. here comes the good Macduffe. How goes the world Sir, now? Why see you not? Is't known who did this more than bloody deed? Those that Macbeth hath slain. Alas the day, What good could they pretend? They were subborned, Malcolme, and Donalbaine the King's two Sons Are stolen away and fled, which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. 'Gainst Nature still, Thriftless Ambition, that will raven up Thine own lives means: Then 'tis most like, The Sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. He is already named, and gone to Scone To be invested. Where is Duncans body? Carried to Colmekill, The Sacred Storehouse of his Predecessors, And Guardian of their Bones. Will you to Scone? No Cousin, I'll to Fife. Well, I will thither. Well may you see things well done there: Adieu Lest our old Robes sit easier than our new. Farewell, Father. God's benison go with you, and with those That would make good of bad, and Friends of Foes. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weyard Women promised, and I fear Thou playd'st most foully for't: yet it was said It should not stand in thy Posterity, But that myself should be the Root, and Father Of many Kings. If there come truth from them, As upon thee Macbeth, their Speeches shine, Why by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my Oracles as well, And set me up in hope. But hush, no more. here's our chief Guest. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great Feast, And all-thing unbecoming. To night we hold a solemn Supper sir, And I'll request your presence. Let your Highness' Command upon me, to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie For ever knit. Ride you this afternoon? I, my good Lord. We should have else desired your good advice (Which still hath been both grave, and prosperous) In this day's Council: but we'll take to morrow. Is't far you ride? As far, my Lord, as will fill up the time 'Twixt this, and Supper. Go not my Horse the better, I must become a borrower of the Night, For a dark hour, or twain. Fail not our Feast. My Lord, I will not.
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)
Ha, good Father, Thou ſeeſt the Heauens, as troubled with mans Act, Threatens his bloody Stage: by th' Clock 'tis Day, And yet darke Night ſtrangles the trauailing Lampe: Is't Nights predominance, or the Dayes ſhame, That Darkneſſe does the face of Earth intombe, When liuing Light ſhould kiſſe it? 'Tis vnnaturall, Euen like the deed that's done: On Tueſday laſt, A Faulcon to wring in her pride of place, Was by a Mowſing Owle hawkt at, and kill'd. And Duncans Horſes, (A thing moſt ſtrange, and certaine) Beauteous, and ſwift, the Minions of their Race, Turn'd wilde in nature, broke their ſlls, flong out, Contending 'gainſt Obedience, as they would Make Warre with Mankinde. 'Tis ſaid, they eate each other. They did ſo: To th' amazement of mine eyes that look'd vpon't. Heere comes the good Macduffe. How goes the world Sir, now? Why ſee you not? Is't known who did this more then bloody deed? Thoſe that Macbeth hath ſlaine. Alas the day, What good could they pretend? They were ſubborned, Malcolme, and Donalbaine the Kings two Sonnes Are ſtolne away and fled, which puts vpon them Suſpition of the deed. 'Gainſt Nature ſtill, Thriftleſſe Ambition, that will rauen vp Thine owne liues meanes: Then 'tis moſt like, The Soueraignty will fall vpon Macbeth. He is already nam'd, and gone to Scone To be inueſted. Where is Duncans body? Carried to Colmekill, The Sacred Store-houſe of his Predeceſſors, And Guardian of their Bones. Will you to Scone? No Coſin, Ile to Fife. Well, I will thither. Well may you ſee things wel done there: Adieu Leaſt our old Robes ſit eaſier then our new. Farewell, Father. Gods benyſon go with you, and with thoſe That would make good of bad, and Friends of Foes. Thou haſt it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weyard Women promis'd, and I feare Thou playd'ſt moſt fowly for't: yet it was ſaide It ſhould not ſtand in thy Poſterity, But that my ſelfe ſhould be the Roote, and Father Of many Kings. If there come truth from them, As vpon thee Macbeth, their Speeches ſhine, Why by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my Oracles as well, And ſet me vp in hope. But huſh, no more. Heere's our chiefe Gueſt. If he had beene forgotten, It had bene as a gap in our great Feaſt, And all-thing vnbecomming. To night we hold a ſolemne Supper ſir, And Ile requeſt your preſence. Let your Highneſſe Command vpon me, to the which my duties Are with a moſt indiſſoluble tye For euer knit. Ride you this afternoone? I, my good Lord. We ſhould haue elſe deſir'd your good aduice (Which ſtill hath been both graue, and proſperous) In this dayes Councell: but wee'le take to morrow. Is't farre you ride? As farre, my Lord, as will fill vp the time 'Twixt this, and Supper. Goe not my Horſe the better, I muſt become a borrower of the Night, For a darke houre, or twaine. Faile not our Feaſt. My Lord, I will not.