Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1595 (Annals) tragedy; history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho · 511 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
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's the matter, my Lord? Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my horse. Heaven for his mercy: what treachery is here? Why, what is't my Lord? Give me my boots, I say: Saddle my horse: Now by my Honour, my life, my troth, I will appeach the Villain. What is the matter? Peace foolish Woman. I will not peace. What is the matter Son? 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 thee? 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 their 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, nor 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: And never will I rise up from the ground, Till Bullingbrooke have pardoned thee: Away be gone. Can no man tell 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 heaven (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 rob our Watch, and beat 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 these 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's the matter, my Lord? Hoa, who's within there? Saddle my horſe. Heauen for his mercy: what treachery is heere? Why, what is't my Lord? Giue me my boots, I ſay: Saddle my horſe: Now by my Honor, my life, my troth, I will appeach the Villaine. What is the matter? Peace fooliſh Woman. I will not peace. What is the matter Sonne? Good Mother be content, it is no more Then my poore life muſt anſwer. Thy life anſwer? Bring me my Boots, I will vnto the King. Strike him Aumerle. Poore boy, yu art amaz'd, Hence Villaine, neuer more come in my ſight. Giue me my Boots, I ſay. Why Yorke, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the Treſpaſſe of thine owne? Haue we more Sonnes? 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 happy Mothers name? Is he not like thee? Is he not thine owne? Thou fond mad woman: Wilt thou conceale this darke Conſpiracy? A dozen of them heere haue tane the Sacrament, And interchangeably ſet downe their hands To kill the King at Oxford. He ſhall be none: Wee'l keepe him heere: then what is that to him? Away fond woman: were hee twenty times my Son, I would appeach him. Hadſt thou groan'd for him as I haue done, Thou wouldeſt be more pittifull: But now I know thy minde; thou do'ſt ſuſpect That I haue bene diſloyall to thy bed, And that he is a Baſtard, not thy Sonne: Sweet Yorke, ſweet husband, be not of that minde: He is as like thee, as a man may bee, Not like to me, nor any of my Kin, And yet I loue him. Make way, vnruly Woman. After Aumerle. Mount thee vpon his horſe, Spurre poſt, and get before him to the King, And begge 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: And neuer will I riſe vp from the ground, Till Bullingbrooke haue pardon'd thee: Away be gone. Can no man tell of my vnthriftie Sonne? 'Tis full three monthes ſince I did ſee him laſt. If any plague hang ouer vs, 'tis he, I would to heauen (my Lords) he might be found: Enquire at London, 'mongſt the Tauernes there: For there (they ſay) he dayly doth frequent, With vnreſtrained looſe Companions, Euen ſuch (they ſay) as ſtand in narrow Lanes, And rob our Watch, and beate our paſſengers, Which he, yong wanton, and effeminate Boy Takes on the point of Honor, to ſupport So diſſolute a crew. My Lord, ſome two dayes ſince I ſaw the Prince, And told him of theſe Triumphes held at Oxford. And what ſaid the Gallant?