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 (?) T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.84 · 458 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep, Or if not so, thy noble heart to break: I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. Will it consume me? Let me see it then. This was thy daughter. Why Marcus so she is. Ay me this object kills me. Faint-hearted boy, arise and look upon her, Speak Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless 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 cam'st, 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 effectless 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? O 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 mellodius 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 him innocent.
Peele, George / Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas
Publication year (edition)
1623
First performance / composition (Annals)
1594 [Jan 23 (24); poss. written 1590-1592]
First performance (BritDrama)
1592 [1584-1594]
Company (BritDrama)
Pembroke's Men (?)
Genre (British Drama)
tragedy
Play type
Adult Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 214 · TCP A11954 · DEEP 5081.27
Edition role
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1127–1188 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 18 of 40 in this edition
Length
458 words · 597 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.835 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weepe, Or if not ſo, thy noble heart to breake: I bring conſuming ſorrow to thine age. Will it conſume me? Let me ſee it then. This was thy daughter. Why Marcus ſo ſhe is. Aye me this obiect kils me. Faint-harted boy, ariſe and looke vpon her, Speake Lauinia, what accurſed hand Hath made thee handleſſe 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 cam'ſt, And now like Nylus it diſdaineth bounds: Giue me a ſword, Ile chop off my hands too, For they haue fought for Rome, and all in vaine: And they haue nur'ſt this woe, In feeding life: In booteleſſe prayer haue they bene held vp, And they haue ſeru'd me to effectleſſe 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 do Rome ſeruice, is but vaine. Speake gentle ſiſter, who hath martyr'd thee? O that delightfull engine of her thoughts, That blab'd them with ſuch pleaſing eloquence, Is torne from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where like a ſweet mellodius bird it ſung, Sweet varied notes inchanting euery eare. Oh ſay thou for her, Who hath done this deed? Oh thus I found her ſtraying in the Parke, Seeking to hide herſelfe as doth the Deare That hath receiude ſome vnrecuring wound. It was my Deare, And he that wounded her, Hath hurt me more, then had he kild me dead: For now I ſtand as one vpon a Rocke, Inuiron'd with a wilderneſſe of Sea. Who markes the waxing tide, Grow waue by waue, Expecting euer when ſome enuious ſurge, Will in his briniſh bowels ſwallow him. This way to death my wretched ſonnes are gone: Heere ſtands my other ſonne, a baniſht man, And heere my brother weeping at my woes. But that which giues my ſoule the greateſt ſpurne, Is deere Lauinia, deerer then my ſoule. Had I but ſeene thy picture in this plight, It would haue madded me. What ſhall I doe? Now I behold thy liuely body ſo? Thou haſt no hands to wipe away thy teares, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee: Thy husband he is dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this. Looke Marcus, ah ſonne Lucius looke on her: When I did name her brothers, then freſh teares Stood on her cheekes, as doth the hony dew, Vpon a gathred Lillie almoſt withered., Perchance ſhe weepes becauſe they kil'd her husband, Perchance becauſe ſhe knowes him innocent.