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 T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
Now stay your strife, what shall be, is dispatched. Good Aron give his Majesty my hand, Tell him it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers, bid him bury it, More hath it merited, that let it have: As for my sons, say I account of them, As jewels purchased at an easy price, And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. I go Andronicus, and for thy hand, Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. Their heads I mean: Oh how this villainy, Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it. Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, Aron will have his soul black like his face. Oh here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth, If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call: what wouldst thou kneel with me? Do then dear heart, for heaven shall hear our prayers, Or with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim, And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds, When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. Oh Brother speak with possibility, And do not break into these deep extremes. Is not my sorrow deep having no bottom? Then be my passions bottomless with them. But yet let reason govern thy lament. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes: When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his bigswolne face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth flow: She is the weeping welkin, I the earth: Then must my sea be moved with her sighs, Then must my earth with her continual tears, Become a deluge: overflowed and drowned: For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave, for losers will have leave, To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid, For that good hand thou sent'st the Emperor: Here are the heads of thy two Noble sons, And here's thy hand in scorn to thee sent back: Thy grief, their sports: Thy resolution mocked: That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father's death. Now let hot AEtna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an everburning hell: These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at, is double death. Ah that this sight should make so deep a wound And yet detested life not shrink thereat: That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breath. Alas poor heart, that kiss is comfortless, As frozen water to a starved snake. When will this fearful slumber have an end?
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)
Now stay your strife, what shall be, is dispatcht Good Aron giue his Maiestie my hand, Tell him it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers, bid him burie it, More hath it merited, that let it haue: As for my sonnes, say I account of them, As iewels purchasde at an easie price, And yet deare too, because I bought mine owne. I goe Andronicus, and for thy hand, Looke by and by to haue thy sonnes with thee. Their heads I meane: Oh how this villanie, Doth fat me with the verie thoughts of it. Let ooles doe good, and faire men call for grace, Aron will haue his soule blacke like his face. Oh here I lift this one hand vp to heauen, And bow this feeble ruine to the earth, If any power pitties wretched teares, To that I call: what wouldst thou kneele with mee? Doe then deare hart, for heauen shall heare our praiers, Or with our sighs wele breath the welkin dimme, And staine the sunne with fogge, as sometime clowds, VVhen they doe hug him in their melting bosomes. Oh Brother speake with possibilitie, And doe not breake into these deepe extreames. Is not my sorrow deepe hauing no bottome? Then be my passions bottomlesse with them. But yet let reason gouerne thy lament. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I binde my woes: VVhen heauen doth weepe, doth not the earth oreflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea waxe mad, Threatning the welkin with his bigswolne face? And wilt thou haue a reason for this coile? I am the sea. Harke how her sighs doth flow: Shee is the weeping welkin, I the earth: Then must my sea be mooued with her sighs, Then must my earth with her continuall teares, Become a deluge: ouerflowed and drownd: For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then giue me leaue, for loosers will haue leaue, To ease their stomacks with their bitter tongues. VVorthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid, For that good hand thou sentst the Emperour: Here are the heads of thy two Noble sonnes, And heres thy hand in scorne to thee sent backe: Thy griefe, their sports: Thy resolution mockt: That woe is me to thinke vpon thy woes, More than remembrance of my fathers death. Now let hote AEtna coole in Cycili, And be my hart an euerburning hell: These miseries are more than may be borne. To weepe with them that weepe doth ease some deale, But sorrow flowted at, is double death. Ah that this sight should make so deepe a wound And yet detested life not shrinke thereat: That euer death should let life beare his name, VVhere life hath no more interest but to breath. Alas poore har, that kisse is comfortlesse, As frozen water to a starued snake. VVhen will this fearefull slumber haue an end?