Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 497 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.
His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth to day, There's some conceit or other likes him well, When he doth bid good morrow with such a spirit. I think there is never a man in christendome, That can lesser hide his love or hate than he: For by his face strait shall you know his heart. What of his heart perceive you in his face, By any likelihood he showed to day? Marry, that with no man here he is offended, For if he were, he would have shown it in his looks. I pray God he be not, I say. I pray you all, what do they deserve, That do conspire my death with devilish plots, Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevailed. Upon my body with their hellish charimes? The tender love I bear your grace my Lord, Makes me most forward in this noble presence, To doom the offenders whatsoever they be: I say my Lo: they have deserved death. Th●● be your eyes the witness of this ill, See how I am bewitched, behold mine arm Is like a blasted sapling withered up. This is that Edward's wife, that monstrous witch, Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore. That by their witchcraft, thus have marked me. If they have done this thing my gracious Lo: If, thou protector of this damned strumpet, Tellest thou me of iffes? thou art a traitor. Off with his head. Now by Saint Paul, I will not dive to day I swear, Until I see the same, some see it done, The rest that love me, come and follow me. woe woe for England, not a whit for me: For I too fond might have prevented this: Stanley did dream the boat did raze his helm, But I disdained it, and did scorn to fly, Three times to day, my foot-cloth horse did stumble, And startled when he looked upon the tower, As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. Oh, now I want the Priest that spoke to me, I now repent I told the Pursusant, As ttwere triumphing at mine enemies: How they at Pomfret bloodily were butchered, And I myself secure in grace and favour: Oh Margaret Margaret: now thy heavy curse, Is lighted on poor Hastings wretched head. Dispatch my Lo: the Duke would be at dinner: Make a short shrift, he longs to see your head. O momentary state of worldly men, Which we more hunt for, than the grace of heaven: Who builds his hopes in air of your fair looks, lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. Come lead me to the block, bear him my head, They smile at me that shortly shallbe dead. Come cozen, canst thou quake and change thy colour? Murder thy breath in middle of a word, And then begin again, and stop again, As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror.
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)
His Grace lookes cheefully and smooth to day, Theres some conceit or other likes him well, When he doth bid good morrow with such a spirit. I thinke there is neuer a man in christendome, That can lesser hide his loue or hate then he: For by his face straight shall you know his heart. What of his heart perceiue you in his face, By any likelihood he shewed to day? Mary, that with no man here he is offended, For if he were, he would haue shewen it in his lookes. I pray God he be not, I say. I pray you all, what doe they deserue, That doe conspire my death with diuelish plots, Of damned witchcraft, and that haue preuaild. Vpon my body with their hellish charimes? The tender loue I beare your grace my Lord, Makes me most forward in this noble presence, To doome the offenders whatsoeuer they be: I say my Lo: they haue deserued death. Th be your eies the witnesse of this ill, See how I am bewitcht, behold mine arme Is like a blasted sapling withered vp. This is that Edwards wife, that monstrous witch, Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore. That by their witchcraft, thus haue marked me. If they haue done this thing my gratious Lo: If, thou protector of this damned strumpet, Telst thou me of iffes? thou art a traitor. Off with his head. Now by Saint Paule, I will not diue to day I sweare, Vntill I see the same, some see it done, The rest that loue me, come and follow me. Wo wo for England, not a whit for me: For I too fond might haue preuented this: Stanley did dreame the boate did race his helme, But I disdaind it, and did scorne to flie, Three times to day, my footecloth horse did stumble, And startled when he lookt vpon the tower, As loath to beare me to the slaughterhouse. Oh, now I want the Priest that spake to me, I now repent I tolde the Pursusant, As twere triumphing at mine enemies: How they at Pomfret bloudily were butcherd, And I my selfe secure in grace and fauour: Oh Margaret Margaret: now thy heauy curse, Is lighted on poore Hastings wretched head. Dispatch my Lo: the Duke would be at dinner: Make a short shrift, he longs to see your head. O momentary state of worldly men, Which we more hunt for, then the grace of heauen: Who buildes his hopes in aire of your faire lookes, Liues like a drunken sayler on a mast, Ready with euery nod to tumble downe Into the fatall bowels of the deepe. Come leade me to the blocke, beare him my head, They smile at me that shortly shalbe dead. Come Cosen, canst thou quake and change thy colour? Murther thy breath in middle of a word, And then beginne againe, and stop againe, As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror.