Peele, George / Shakespeare, William · published 1594 · first performed or written 1594 [Jan 23 (24); poss. written 1590-1592] (Annals) tragedy · Pembroke's Men (?) T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil typicality 0.82 · 521 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
And made a brine pit with our bitter tears? Or shall we cut away our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues? and in dumb shows Pass the remainder of our hateful days? What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues, Plot some device of further misery, To make us wondered at in time to come. Sweet father cease your tears, for at your grief See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. Patience dear niece, good Titus dry thine eyes. Ah Marcus, Marcus, Brother well I wot, Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine, For thou poor man, hast drowned it with thine own. Ah my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. Mark Marcus, mark, I understand her signs, Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say That to her Brother, which I said to thee. His napkin with her true tears all bewet, Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. Oh what a sympathy of woe is this, As far from help, as limbo is from bliss. Titus Andronicus, My Lord the Emperor, Sends thee this word, that if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius', or thyself old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand And send it to the King, he for the same, will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault. Oh gracious Emperor, Oh gentle Aron, Did ever Raven sing so like a Lark, That gives sweet tidings of the suns uprise? With all my heart, I'll send the Emperor my hand, Good Aron wilt thou help to chop it off? Stay father, for that Noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn, My youth can better spare my blood than you, And therefore mine shall save my brother's lives. which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And reared aloft the bloody Battleaxe, writing destruction on the enemy's Castle? Oh none of both, but are of high desert: My hand hath been but idle, let it serve To ransom my two Nephews from their death, Then have I kept it to a worthy end. Nay come agree whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come. My hand shall go. By heaven it shall not go. Sirs strive no more, such withered herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death. And for our father's sake, and mother's care, Now let me show a brother's love to thee. Agree between you, I will spare my hand. Then I'll go fetch an Axe. But I will use the Axe. Come hither Aron, I'll deceive them both, Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. If that be called deceit, I will be honest, And never whilst I live deceive men so: But I'll deceive you in another sort, And that you'll say ere halfe an hour pass.
seed 43: T37 · seed 44: T36 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
And made a brine pit with our bitter teares? Or shall we cut away our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues? and in dumbe showes Passe the remainder of our hatefull daies? VVhat shall we doe? Let vs that haue our tongues, Plot some deuise of further miserie, To make vs wonderd at in time to come. Sweete father cease your teares, for at your grie See how my wretched ister sobs and weepes. Patience deare niece, good Titus dry thine eies. Ah Marcus, Marcus, Brother well I wote, Thy napkin cannot drinke a teare of mine, For thou poore man, hast drownd it with thine owne. Ah my Lauinia, I will wipe thy cheekes. Marke Marcus, marke, I vnderstand her signes, Had shee a tongue to speake, now would shee say That to her Brother, which I said to thee. His napking with her true teares all bewe, Can doe no seruice on her sorrowfull cheekes Oh what a simpathie of woe is this, As farre from helpe, as ymbo is from blisse. Titus Andronicus, My Lord the Emperour, Sends thee this word, that if thou loue thy sonnes, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thy selfe olde Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand And send it to the King, he for the same, will send thee hither both thy sonnes aliue, And that shall be the raunsome for their fault. Oh gratious Emperour, Oh gentle Aron, Did euer Rauen sing so like a Larke, That giues sweete tidings of the Sunnes vprise? VVith all my hart, Ile send the Emperour my hand, Good Aron wilt thou helpe to chop it off? Stay father, for that Noble hand of thine, That hath throwne downe so many enemies, Shall not be sent: my hand will serue the turne, My youth can better spare my bloud than you, And therefore mine shall saue my brothers liues. which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And reard aloft the bloudie Battleaxe, wrighting destruction on the enemies Casle? Oh none of both, but are of high desert: My hand hath beene but idle, let it serue To raunsome my two Nephews from their death, Then haue I kept it to a worthie ende. Nay come agree whose hand shall goe along, For feare they die before their pardon come. My hand shall goe. By heauen it shall not goe. Sirs striue no more, such withred hearbs as these Are meete for plucking vp, and therefore mine. Sweete father, if I shall be thought thy sonne, Let me redeeme my brothers both from death. And for our fathers sake, and mothers care, Now let me show a brothers loue to thee. Agree betweene you, I will spare my hand. Then Ile goe fetch an Axe. But I will vse the Axe. Come hither Aron, Ile deceiue them both, Lend me thy had, and I will giue thee mine. If that be calde deceit, I will be honest, And neuer whilst I liue deceiue men so: But Ile deceiue you in another sort, And that youle say ere halfe an houre passe.