Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T25 Kings, power and law: political sententi typicality 0.79 · 486 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T25: feare, kings, power, princes, lawes, loue, state, downe, honor, men.
What should he be? It is myself I mean: in whom I know All the particulars of Vice so grafted, That when they shall be opened, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as Snow, and the poor State Esteem him as a Lamb, being compared With my confinelesse harms. Not in the Legions Of horrid Hell, can come a Devil more damned In evils, to top Macbeth. I grant him Bloody, Luxurious, Avaricious, False, Deceitful, Sudden, Malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name. But there's no bottom, none In my Voluptuousness: Your Wives, your Daughters, Your Matrons, and your Maids, could not fill up The Cistern of my Lust, and my Desire All continent Impediments would o'erbear That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth, Then such an one to reign. Boundless intemperance In Nature is a Tyranny: It hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy Throne, And fall of many Kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold. The time you may so hoodwink: We have willing Dames enough: there cannot be That Vulture in you, to devour so many As will to Greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclined. With this, there grows In my most ill-composed Affection, such A stanchlesse Avarice, that were I King, I should cut off the Nobles for their Lands, Desire his jewels, and this others House, And my more-hauing, would be as a Sauce To make me hunger more, that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the Good and Loyal, Destroying them for wealth. This Avarice sticks deeper: grows with more pernicious root Then Summer-seeming Lust: and it hath been The Sword of our slain Kings: yet do not fear, Scotland hath Foysons, to fill up your will Of your mere Own. All these are portable, With other Graces weighed. But I have none. The King-becoming Graces, As justice, Verity, Temperance, Stableness, Bounty, Perseverance, Mercy, Lowliness, Devotion, Patience, Courage, Fortitude, I have no relish of them, but abound In the division of each several Crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I pour, I should Pour the sweet Milk of Concord, into Hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. O Scotland, Scotland. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken. Fit to govern? No not to live. O Nation miserable! With an vntitled Tyrant, bloody Sceptred, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again? Since that the truest Issue of thy Throne By his own Interdiction stands accust, And does blaspheme his breed? Thy Royal Father Was a most Sainted-King: the Queen that bore thee, Oftener upon her knees, then on her feet, Died every day she lived. Far thee well, These Evils thou repeatest upon thyself, Hath banished me from Scotland. O my Breast, Thy hope ends here.
seed 43: T25 · seed 44: T6 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
What ſhould he be? It is my ſelfe I meane: in whom I know All the particulars of Vice ſo grafted, That when they ſhall be open'd, blacke Macbeth Will ſeeme as pure as Snow, and the poore State Eſteeme him as a Lambe, being compar'd With my confineleſſe harmes. Not in the Legions Of horrid Hell, can come a Diuell more damn'd In euils, to top Macbeth. I grant him Bloody, Luxurious, Auaricious, Falſe, Deceitfull, Sodaine, Malicious, ſmacking of euery ſinne That ha's a name. But there's no bottome, none In my Voluptuouſneſſe: Your Wiues, your Daughters, Your Matrons, and your Maides, could not fill vp The Ceſterne of my Luſt, and my Deſire All continent Impediments would ore-beare That did oppoſe my will. Better Macbeth, Then ſuch an one to reigne. Boundleſſe intemperance In Nature is a Tyranny: It hath beene Th' vntimely emptying of the happy Throne, And fall of many Kings. But feare not yet To take vpon you what is yours: you may Conuey your pleaſures in a ſpacious plenty, And yet ſeeme cold. The time you may ſo hoodwinke: We haue willing Dames enough: there cannot be That Vulture in you, to deuoure ſo many As will to Greatneſſe dedicate themſelues, Finding it ſo inclinde. With this, there growes In my moſt ill-compos'd Affection, ſuch A ſtanchleſſe Auarice, that were I King, I ſhould cut off the Nobles for their Lands, Deſire his Iewels, and this others Houſe, And my more-hauing, would be as a Sawce To make me hunger more, that I ſhould forge Quarrels vniuſt againſt the Good and Loyall, Deſtroying them for wealth. This Auarice ſtickes deeper: growes with more pernicious roote Then Summer-ſeeming Luſt: and it hath bin The Sword of our ſlaine Kings: yet do not feare, Scotland hath Foyſons, to fill vp your will Of your meere Owne. All theſe are portable, With other Graces weigh'd. But I haue none. The King-becoming Graces, As Iuſtice, Verity, Temp'rance, Stableneſſe, Bounty, Perſeuerance, Mercy, Lowlineſſe, Deuotion, Patience, Courage, Fortitude, I haue no relliſh of them, but abound In the diuiſion of each ſeuerall Crime, Acting it many wayes. Nay, had I powre, I ſhould Poure the ſweet Milke of Concord, into Hell, Vprore the vniuerſall peace, confound All vnity on earth. O Scotland, Scotland. If ſuch a one be fit to gouerne, ſpeake: I am as I haue ſpoken. Fit to gouern? No not to liue. O Natiō miſerable! With an vntitled Tyrant, bloody Sceptred, When ſhalt thou ſee thy wholſome dayes againe? Since that the trueſt Iſſue of thy Throne By his owne Interdiction ſtands accuſt, And do's blaſpheme his breed? Thy Royall Father Was a moſt Sainted-King: the Queene that bore thee, Oftner vpon her knees, then on her feet, Dy'de euery day ſhe liu'd. Fare thee well, Theſe Euils thou repeat'ſt vpon thy ſelfe, Hath baniſh'd me from Scotland. O my Breſt, Thy hope ends heere.