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 (?) T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil typicality 0.79 · 486 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
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 foul a deed, Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia let me kiss thy lips, Or make some signs 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 in meadows, yet not dry With miry 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, 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 miseries 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 wots, 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 be wet, 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 Aaron. Did ever Raven sing so like a Lark, That gives sweet tidings of the Sun's 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 then 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.
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 1189–1246 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 19 of 40 in this edition
Length
486 words · 606 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T40 — Sin, guilt and violent loss within familiescross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.792 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
If they did kill thy husband then be ioyfull, Becauſe the law hath tane reuenge on them. No, no, they would not doe ſo foule a deede, Witnes the ſorrow that their ſiſter makes. Gentle Lauinia let me kiſſe thy lips, Or make ſome ſignes how I may do 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 ſtain'd in meadowes, yet not dry With miery ſlime left on them by a flood: And in the Fountaine ſhall we gaze ſo long, Till the freſh taſte be taken from that cleerenes, 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 ſhewes Paſſe the remainder of our hatefull dayes? What ſhall we doe? Let vs that haue our tongues Plot ſome deuiſe of further miſeries To make vs wondred at in time to come. Sweet Father ceaſe your teares, for at your griefe See how my wretched ſiſter ſobs and weeps. Patience deere Neece, good Titus drie thine eyes. Ah Marcus, Marcus, Brother well I wot, Thy napkin cannot drinke a teare of mine, For thou poore man haſt drown'd it with thine owne. Ah my Lauinia I will wipe thy cheekes. Marke Marcus marke, I vnderſtand her ſignes, Had ſhe a tongue to ſpeake, now would ſhe ſay That to her brother which I ſaid to thee. His Napkin with her true teares all be wet, Can do no ſeruice on her ſorrowfull cheekes. Oh what a ſimpathy of woe is this! As farre from helpe as Limbo 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 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 ſonnes aliue, And that ſhall be the ranſome for their fault. Oh gracious Emperour, oh gentle Aaron. Did euer Rauen ſing ſo like a Larke, That giues ſweet tydings of the Sunnes vpriſe? With all my heart, Ile ſend the Emperour my hand, Good Aron wilt thou help 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 blood then you, And therfore mine ſhall ſaue my brothers liues. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the bloody Battleaxe. Writing deſtruction on the enemies Caſtle? Oh none of both but are of high deſert: My hand hath bin but idle, let it ſerue To ranſome my two nephewes from their death, Then haue I kept it to a worthy end.