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 T1 Death, grief and revenge · 443 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
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 griefs, 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 Cicilie, 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 hart that kiss is comfortless, As frozen water to a starved snake. When will this fearful slumber have an end? Now farewell flattery, die Andronicus, Thou dost not slumber, see thy two son's heads, Thy warlike hands, thy mangled daughter here: Thy other banished sons with this dear fight Struck pale and bloodless, and thy brother I, Even like a stony Image, cold and numb. Ah now no more will I control my griefs, Rend off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes: Now is a time to storm, why art thou still? Ha', ha', ha', Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour. Why I have not another tear to shed: Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my watery eyes, And make them blind with tributary tears. Then which way shall I find Revenges Cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me, I shall never come to bliss, Till all these mischiefs be returned again, Even in their throats that have committed them. Come let me see what task I have to do, You heavy people, circled me about, That I may turn me to each one of you, And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made, come Brother take a head, And in this hand the other will I bear. And Lavinia thou shalt be employed in these things: Bear thou my hand sweet wench between thy teeth: As for thee boy, go get thee from my sight, Thou art an Exile, and thou must not stay, Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there, And if you love me, as I think you do, Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do.
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)
Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid, For that good hand thou ſentſt the Emperour: Heere are the heads of thy two noble ſonnes. And heeres thy hand in ſcorne to thee ſent backe: Thy griefes, their ſports: Thy reſolution mockt, That woe is me to thinke vpon thy woes, More then remembrance of my fathers death. Now let hot Aetna coole in Cicilie, And be my heart an euer-burning hell: Theſe miſeries are more then may be borne. To weepe with them that weepe, doth eaſe ſome deale, But ſorrow flouted at, is double death. Ah that this ſight ſhould make ſo deep a wound, And yet deteſted life not ſhrinke thereat: That euer death ſhould let life beare his name, Where life hath no more intereſt but to breath. Alas poore hart that kiſſe is comfortleſſe, As frozen water to a ſtarued ſnake. When will this fearefull ſlumber haue an end? Now farwell flatterie, die Andronicus, Thou doſt not ſlumber, ſee thy two ſons heads, Thy warlike hands, thy mangled daughter here: Thy other baniſht ſonnes with this deere fight Strucke pale and bloodleſſe, and thy brother I, Euen like a ſtony Image, cold and numme. Ah now no more will I controule my griefes, Rent off thy ſiluer haire, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this diſmall ſight The cloſing vp of our moſt wretched eyes: Now is a time to ſtorme, why art thou ſtill? Ha, ha, ha, Why doſt thou laugh? it fits not with this houre. Why I haue not another teare to ſhed: Beſides, this ſorrow is an enemy, And would vſurpe vpon my watry eyes, And make them blinde with tributarie teares. Then which way ſhall I finde Reuenges Caue? For theſe two heads doe ſeeme to ſpeake to me, And threat me, I ſhall neuer come to bliſſe, Till all theſe miſchiefes be returned againe, Euen in their throats that haue committed them. Come let me ſee what taske I haue to doe, You heauie people, circle me about, That I may turne me to each one of you, And ſweare vnto my ſoule to right your wrongs. The vow is made, come Brother take a head, And in this hand the other will I beare. And Lauinia thou ſhalt be employd in theſe things: Beare thou my hand ſweet wench betweene thy teeth: As for thee boy, goe get thee from my ſight, Thou art an Exile, and thou muſt not ſtay, Hie to the Gothes, and raiſe an army there, And if you loue me, as I thinke you doe, Let's kiſſe and part, for we haue much to doe.