Peele, George / Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1594 [Jan 23 (24); poss. written 1590-1592] (Annals) tragedy · Pembroke's Men (?) unassigned nearest T2 Roman politics: senate, consuls and civi · 458 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
Hear me grave fathers, noble Tribunes stay, For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept: For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed, For all the frosty nights that I have watched, And for these bitter tears, which now you see, Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks, Be pitiful to my condemned Sons, Whose souls is not corrupted as 'tis thought: For two and twenty sons I never wept, Because they died in honours lofty bed. For these, Tribunes, in the dust I writ My hearts deep languor, and my souls sad tears: Let my tears staunch the earth's dry appetite. My son's sweet blood, will make it shame and blush: O earth! I will be friend thee more with rain That shall distil from these two ancient ruins, Then youthful April shall with all his showers In summer's drought: I'll drop upon thee still, In Winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow, And keep erernall spring time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear son's blood. Oh reverent Tribunes, oh gentle aged men, Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death, And let me say (that never wept before) My tears are now prevailing Orators. Oh noble father, you lament in vain, The Tribunes hear not, no man is by, And you recount your sorrows to a stone. Ah Lucius for thy brothers let me plead, Grave Tribunes, once more I entreat of you. My gracious Lord, no Tribune hears you speak. Why 'tis no matter man, if they did hear They would not mark me: oh if they did hear They would not pity me. Therefore I tell my sorrows bootless to the stones. Who though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the Tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale; When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me, And were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no Tribune like to these. A stone is as soft wax, Tribunes more hard than stones: A stone is silent, and offendeth not, And Tribunes with their tongue's doom men to death. But wherefore standest thou with thy weapon drawn? To rescue my two brothers from their death, For which attempt the judges have pronounc'st My everlasting doom of banishment. O happy man, they have befriended thee: Why foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of Tigers? Tiger's must pray, and Rome affords no prey But me and and mine: how happy art thou then, From these devourers to be banished? But who comes with our brother Marcus here?
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)
Heare me graue fathers, noble Tribunes ſtay, For pitty of mine age, whoſe youth was ſpent In dangerous warres, whilſt you ſecurely ſlept: For all my blood in Romes great quarrell ſhed, For all the froſty nights that I haue watcht, And for theſe bitter teares, which now you ſee, Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheekes, Be pittifull to my condemned Sonnes, Whoſe ſoules is not corrupted as 'tis thought: For two and twenty ſonnes I neuer wept, Becauſe they died in honours lofty bed. For theſe, Tribunes, in the duſt I write My harts deepe languor, and my ſoules ſad teares: Let my teares ſtanch the earths drie appetite. My ſonnes ſweet blood, will make it ſhame and bluſh: O earth! I will be friend thee more with raine That ſhall diſtill from theſe two ancient ruines, Then youthfull Aprill ſhall with all his ſhowres In ſummers drought: Ile drop vpon thee ſtill, In Winter with warme teares Ile melt the ſnow, And keepe erernall ſpring time on thy face, So thou refuſe to drinke my deare ſonnes blood. Oh reuerent Tribunes, oh gentle aged men, Vnbinde my ſonnes, reuerſe the doome of death, And let me ſay (that neuer wept before) My teares are now preualing Oratours. Oh noble father, you lament in vaine, The Tribunes heare not, no man is by, And you recount your ſorrowes to a ſtone. Ah Lucius for thy brothers let me plead, Graue Tribunes, once more I intreat of you. My gracious Lord, no Tribune heares you ſpeake. Why 'tis no matter man, if they did heare They would not marke me: oh if they did heare They would not pitty me. Therefore I tell my ſorrowes bootles to the ſtones. Who though they cannot anſwere my diſtreſſe, Yet in ſome ſort they are better then the Tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale; When I doe weepe, they humbly at my feete Receiue my teares, and ſeeme to weepe with me, And were they but attired in graue weedes, Rome could afford no Tribune like to theſe. A ſtone is as ſoft waxe, Tribunes more hard then ſtones: A ſtone is ſilent, and offendeth not, And Tribunes with their tongues doome men to death. But wherefore ſtand'ſt thou with thy weapon drawne? To reſcue my two brothers from their death, For which attempt the Iudges haue pronounc'ſt My euerlaſting doome of baniſhment. O happy man, they haue befriended thee: Why fooliſh Lucius, doſt thou not perceiue That Rome is but a wildernes of Tigers? Tigers muſt pray, and Rome affords no prey But me and and mine: how happy art thou then, From theſe deuourers to be baniſhed? But who comes with our brother Marcus heere?