Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1595 (Annals) tragedy; history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour · 517 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
I do beseech you pardon me, I may not show it. I will be satisfied, let me see it I say: Treason, foul treason, villain, traitor▪ slave, What is the matter my lord? Ho, who is within there? saddle my horse, God for his mercy! what treachery is here? Why what is it my Lord? Give me my boots I say, saddle my horse▪ Now by mine honour, by my life, by my troth I will appeach the villain. What is the matter? Peace foolish woman. I will not peace, what is the matter Aumerle? Good mother be content, it is no more Than my poor life must answer. Thy life answer? Bring me my boots, I will unto the King. Strike him Aumerle, poor boy thou art amazed, Hence villain never more come in my sight. Give me my boots I say. Why York what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own? Have we more sons? or are we like to have? Is not my teeming date drunk up with time? And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age? And rob me of a happy mother's name, Is he not like the? is he not thine own? Thou fond mad woman, Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament: And interchangeably set down there hands, To kill the king at Oxford. He shall be none, we'll keep him here, Then what is that to him? Away fond woman, were he twenty times my son. I would appeach him. Hadst thou groaned for him as I have done, Thou wouldst be more pitiful. But now I know thy mind, thou dost suspect That I have been disloyal to thy bed, And that he is a bastard, not thy son: Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind, He is as like thee as a man may be, Not like to me, or any of my kin, And yet I love him. Make way unruly woman. After Aumerle: mount thee upon his horse, Spur, post, and get before him to the King, And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee, I'll not be long behind, though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as York. An never will I rise up from the ground, Till Bullingbroke have pardoned thee: away, be gone. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son? 'tis full three months since I did see him last, If any plague hang over us 'tis he: I would to God my Lords he might be found: Inquire at London, 'mongst the Taverns there, For there (they say) he daily doth frequent, With unrestrained lose companions, Even such (they say) as stand in narrow lanes, And beat our watch, and rob our passengers, Which he young wanton and effeminate boy, Takes on the point of honour to support so dissolute a crew: My Lord, some two days since I saw the prince, And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford. And what said the gallant?
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)
I do beseech you pardon me, I may not shew it. I will be satisfied, let me see it I say: Treason, foule treason, villaine, traitor▪ slaue, What is the matter my lord? Ho, who is within there? saddle my horse, God or his mercy! what treachery is here? Why what is it my Lord? Giue me my bootes I say, saddle my horse▪ Now by mine honour, by my life, by my troth I will appeach the villaine. What is the matter? Peace foolish woman. I wil not peace, what is the matter Aumerle? Good mother be content, it is no more Then my poore life must answere. Thy life answere? Bring me my bootes, I will vnto the King. Strike him Aumerle, poore boy thou art amazd, Hence vilaine neuer more come in my ight. Giue me my bootes I say. Why Yorke what wilt thou doe? Wilt thou not hide the trespasse of thine owne? Haue we more sons? or are we like to haue? Is not my teeming date drunke vp with time? And wilt thou plucke my faire sonne from mine age? And rob me of a happie mothers name, Is he not like the? is he not thine owne? Thou fond mad woman, Wilt thou conceale this darke conspiracie? A doozen of them here haue tane the sacrament: And interchaungeably set downe there hands, To kill the king at Oxford. He shal be none, weele keepe him heere, Then what is that to him? Away fond woman, were he twentie times my sonne. I would appeach him. Hadst thou groand for him as I haue done, Thou wouldst bee more pittifull. But nowe I knowe rhy minde, thou doest suspect That I haue been disloiall to thy bed, And that he is a bastard, not thy sonne: Sweete Yorke, sweete husband, be not of that mind, He is as like thee as a man may be, Not like to me, or any of my kinne, And yet I loue him. Make way vnulie woman. After Aumerle: mount thee vpon his horse, Spur, post, and get before him to the King, And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee, Ile not be long behind, though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as Yorke. An neuer will I rise vp from the ground, Till Bullingbroke haue pardoned thee: away, be gone. Can no man tell me of my vnthriftie sonn? Tis full three moneths since I did see him last, If any plague hng ouer vs tis he: I wou to God y Lordes he might be found: Inquir at London, mongst the Tauernes there, For there (they say) he daylie doth frequent, With vnrestrained loose companions, Euen such (they say) as stand in narrow lanes, And beate our watch, and ob our passengers, Which he yong wanton and effeminate boy, Takes on the point of honour to support so dissolute a crew: My Lord, some two dayes since I saw the prince, And toud him of those triumphes helde at Oxford. And what said the gallant?