Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil typicality 0.86 · 493 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.
A boon my sovereign for my service done. I pray thee peace, my soul is full of sorrow. I will not rise unless your highness grant. Then speak at once▪ what is it thou demandest. The forfeit sovereign of my servants life, Who slew to day a riotous gentleman, Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk. Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death, And shall the same give pardon to a slave? My brother slew no man, his fault was thought, And yet his punishment was cruel death. Who sued to me for him? who in my rage, Kneeled at my feet and bade me be advised? Who spoke of Brotherhood? who of love? Who told me how the poor soul did forsake The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me: Who told me in the field by Teuxbery, When Oxford had me down, he rescued me, And said dear brother, live and be a King? Who told me when we both lay in the field, Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me Even in his own garments, and gave himself All thin and naked to the numbcold night? All this from my remembrance brutish wrath Sinfully puckt, and not a man of you Had so much grace to put it in my mind. But when your carters, or your weighting vassals Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You strait are on your knees for pardon pardon. And I unjustly too, must grant it you: But for my brother, not a man would speak, Nor I ungracious speak unto myself, For him poor soul: The proudest of you all Have been beholding to him in his life: Yet none of you would once plead for his life: Oh God I fear thy justice will take hold On me, and you, and mine, and yours for this. Come Hastings help me to my closet, oh poor Clarence, This is the fruit of rashness: marked you not How that the guilty kindred of the Queen, Looked pale when they did hear of Clarence death? Oh they did urge it still unto the King, God will revenge it. But come let's in To comfort Edward with our company. Tell me good Granam, is our father dead? No boy. Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast, And cry, Oh Clarence my unhappy son? Why do you look on us and shake your head, And call us wretches, Orphans, castaways, If that our noble father be alive? My pretty Cousins, you mistake me much, I do lament the sickness of the King: As loath to lose him, not your father's death: It were lost labour, to weep for one that's lost. Then Granam you conclude that he is dead, The King my Uncle is too blame for this: God will revenge it, whom I will importune With daily prayers, all to that effect.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1122–1181 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 19 of 54 in this edition
Length
493 words · 619 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T40 — Sin, guilt and violent loss within familiescross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.856 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T37 · seed 44: T36 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
A boone my soueraigne for my seruice done. I pray thee peace, my soule is full of sorrow. I will not rise vnlesse your highnesse grant. Then speake at once▪ what is it thou demaundst. The forfeit soueraigne of my seruant life, Who slew to day a riotous gentleman, Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolke. Haue I a tongue to doome my brothers death, And shall the same giue pardon to a slaue? My brother slew no man, his fault was thought, And yet his punishment was cruell death. Who sued to me for him? who in my rage, Kneeld at my feete and bad me be aduisde? Who spake of Brotherhood? who of loue? Who told me how the poore soule did forsake The mighty Warwicke, and did fight for me: Who tolde me in the field by Teuxbery, When Oxford had me downe, he rescued me, And said deare brother, liue and be a King? Who told me when we both lay in the field, Frozen almost to death, how he did lappe me Euen in his owne garments, and gaue himselfe All thin and naked to the numbcold night? All this from my remembrance brutish wrath Sinfully puckt, and not a man of you Had so much grace to put it in my minde. But when your carters, or your waighting vassailes Haue done a drunken slaughter, and defaste The pretious image of our deare Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon pardon. And I vniustly too, must grant it you: But for my brother, not a man would speake, Nor I vngratious speake vnto my selfe, For him poore soule: The proudest of you all Haue beene beholding to him in his life: Yet none of you would once pleade for his life: Oh God I feare thy Iustice will take hold On me, and you, and mine, and yours for this. Come Hastings help me to my closet, oh poore Clarence, This is the fruit of rashnes: markt you not How that the guilty kindred of the Queene, Lookt pale when they did heare of Clarence death? Oh they did vrge it still vnto the King, God will reuenge it. But come lets in To comfort Edward with our company. Tell me good Granam, is our father dead? No boy. Why doe you wring your hands, and beate your breast, And cie, Oh Clarence my vnhappy sonne? Why doe you looke on vs and shake your head, And call vs wretches, Orphanes, castawaies, If that our noble father be aliue? My prety Cosens, you mistake me much, I doe lament the sicknesse of the King: As loth to loose him, not your fathers death: It were lost labour, to weepe for one thats lost. Then Granam you conclude that he is dead, The King my Vnckle is too blame for this: God will reuenge it, whom I will importune With daily praiers, all to that effect.