Peele, George / Shakespeare, William · published 1594 · first performed or written 1594 [Jan 23 (24); poss. written 1590-1592] (Annals) tragedy · Pembroke's Men (?) unassigned nearest T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil · 521 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
Faint-harted-boy, arise and look upon her, Speak Lauinea, what accursed hand, Hath made thee handles in thy father's sight? what fool hath added water to the sea? Or brought a faggot to bright burning Troy? My grief was at the height before thou camest, And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds. Give me a sword I'll chop off my hands too, For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain: And they have nursed this woe, in feeding life: In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have served me to effectles use. Now all the service I require of them, Is that the one will help to cut the other. 'tis well Lavinia that thou hast no hands, For hands to do Rome service is but vain. Speak gentle sister, who hath martyred thee. Oh that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabbed them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where like a sweet melodious bird it sung, Sweet varied notes enchanting every ear. Oh say thou for her, who hath done this deed? Oh thus I found her straying in the Park, Seeking to hide herself, as doth the Dear That hath received some unrecuring wound. It was my Dear, and he that wounded her, Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead: For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environed with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide, grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge, Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sons are gone, Here stands my other son a banished man, And here my brother weeping at my woes: But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight, It would have madded me: what shall I do, Now I behold thy lively body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyred thee: Thy husband he is dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemned, and dead by this. Look Marcus, Ah son Lucius look on her, When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey dew, Upon a gathered Lily almost withered. Perchance she weeps because they killed her husband, Perchance, because she knows them innocent. If they did kill thy husband then be joyful, Because the Law hath ta'en revenge on them. No, no, they would not do so fowl a deed, Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, Or make some sign how I may do thee ease: Shall thy good Uncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou, and I, sit round about some Fountain, Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks, How they are stained like meadows yet not dry, With mierie slime left on them by a flood? And in the fountain shall we gaze so long, Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
seed 43: T37 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Faint-harted-boy, arise and looke vpon her, Speake Lauinea, what accursed hand, Hath made thee handles in thy fathers sight? what foole hath added water to the sea? Or brought a faggot to bright burning Troy? My griefe was at the height before thou camst, And now like Nylus it disdaineth bounds. Giue me a sword Ile choppe off my hands too, For they haue fought for Rome, and all in vaine: And they haue nurst this woe, in feeding life: In bootlesse praier haue they beene held vp, And they haue serude me to effectles vse. Now all the seruice I require of them, Is that the one will helpe to cut the other. Tis well Lauinia that thou hast no hands, For hands to doe Rome seruice is but vaine. Speake gentle sister, who hath martred thee. Oh that delightfull engine of her thoughts, That blabd them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torne from forth that prettie hollow cage, VVere like a sweete mellodious bird it sung, Sweete varied notes inchaunting euerie eare. Oh say thou for her, who hath done this deed? Oh thus I found her straying in the Parke, Seeking to hide her selfe, as doth the Deare That hath receaude some vnrecuring wound. It was my Deare, and he that wounded her, Hath hurt me more than had he kild me dead: For now I stand as one vpon a rocke, Inuirond with a wildernes of sea, VVho markes the waxing tide, grow waue by waue, Expecting euer when some enuious surge, VVill in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sonnes are gone, Here stands my other sonne a banisht man, And here my brother weeping at my woes: But that which giues my oule the greatest spurne Is deare Lauinia, dearer than my soule. Had I but seene thy picture in this plight, It would haue madded me: what shall I doo, Now I behold thy liuelie bodie so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy teares, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martred thee: Thy husband he is dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemnde, and dead by this. Looke Marcus, Ah sonne Lucius looke on her, VVhen I did name her brothers, then fresh teares Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honie dew, Vpon a gathred Lillie almost withered. Perchance shee weepes because they kild her husband, Perchance, because shee knowes them innocent. If they did kill thy husband then be ioyfull, Because the Law hath tne reuenge on them. No, no, they would not doo so fowle a deede, VVitnes the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lauinia, let me kisse thy lips, Or make some signe how I may doe thee ease: Shall thy good Vncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou, and I, sit round about some Fountaine, Looking all downewards to behold our cheekes, How they are staind like meadowes yet not drie, VVith mierie slime left on them by a flood? And in the fountaine shall wee gaze so long, Till the fresh tast be taken from that clearenes,