Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho typicality 0.76 · 515 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
My lord, your promise for the Earldom. Richmond, when last I was at Exeter, The Mayor in courtesy showed me the Castle, And called it Ruge-mount, at which name I started, Because a Bard of Ireland told me once I should not live long after I saw Richmond. My lord. I, what's a clock? I am thus bold to put your grace in mind Of what you promised me. Well, but what's a clock? Upon the stroke often. Well, let it strike. Why let it strike? Because that like a Iacke thou keep'st the stroke Betwixt thy begging and my meditation, I am not in the giving vain to day. Why then resolve me whether you will or no? Tut, tut, thou troublest me, I am not in the vain. Is it even so, rewardst he my true service With such deep contempt, made I him king for this? O let me think on Hastings and be gone To Brecnock while my fearful head is on. The tyrannous and bloody deed is done, The most arch act of piteous massacre, That ever yet this land was guilty of, Dighton and Forrest whom I did suborn, To do this ruthless piece of butchery, Although they were fleshed villains, bloody dogs, Melting with tenderness and kind compassion, Wept like two children in their deaths sad stories: Lo thus quoth Dighton lay those tender babes, Thus thus quoth Forrest girdling on another, Within their innocent alabaster arms, Their lips were four red Roses on a stalk, Which in their summer beauty kissed each other, A book of prayers on their pillow lay, Which once quoth Forrest almost changed my mind, But o the Devil their the villain stopped, Whilst Dighton thus told on we smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature, That from the prime creation ever he framed, Thus both are gone with conscience and remorse, They could not speak and so I left them both, To bring this tidings to the bloody king. And here he comes, all hail my sovereign liege. Kind Tirrell am I happy in thy news. If to have done the thing you give in charge, Beget your happiness, be happy then For it done my Lord. But didst thou see them dead? I did my Lord. And buried gentle Tirrell? The Chaplain of the tower hath buried them, But how or in what place I do not know. Come to me Tirrel soon at after supper, And thou shalt tell the process of their death, Mean time but think how I may do thee good. And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell till soon. The son of Clarence have I penned up close, His daughter meanly have I matched in marriage, The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom, And Anne my wife hath bid the world goodnight▪ Now for I know the Britain Richmond aims At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter, And by that knot looks proudly o'er the crown, To her I go ai●llie thriving wooer, My Lord. Good news or bad that thou comest in so bluntly?
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 2403–2472 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 39 of 54 in this edition
Length
515 words · 657 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T18 — Rebels, barons and the king's wars at homecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.758 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
My lord, your promise for the Earledome. Richmond, when last I was at Exetr, The Maior in curtesie showd me the Castle, And called it Ruge-mount, at which name I started, Because a Bard of Ireland told me once I should not liue long after I saw Richmond. My lord. I, whats a clocke? I am thus bold to put your grace in mind Of what you promisd me. Wel, but whats a clocke? Vpon the stroke often. Well, let it strike. Whie let it strike? Because that like a Iacke thou keepst the stroke Betwixt thy begging and my meditation, I am not in the giuing vaine to day. Whie then resolue me whether you wil or no? Tut, tut, thou troublest me, I am not in the vain. Is it euen so, rewardst he my true seruice With such deepe contempt, made I him king for this? O let me thinke on Hastings and be gone To Brecnock while my fearefull head is on. The tyrranous and bloudie deed is done, The most arch act of pitteous massacre, That euer yet this land was guiltie of, Dighton and Forrest whom I did suborne, To do this ruthles peece of butcherie, Although they were flesht villains, bloudie dogs, Melting with tendernes and kind compassion, Wept like two children in their deaths sad stories: Lo thus quoth Dighton laie those tender babes, Thus thus quoth Forrest girdling on another, Within their innocent alablaster armes, Their lips were foure red Roses on a stalke, Which in their summer beautie kist each other, A booke of praiers on their pillow laie, Which once quoth Forrest almost changd my mind, But ô the Diuell their the villaine stopt, Whilst Dighton thus told on we smothered The most replenished sweet worke of nature, That from the prime creation euer he framed, Thus both are gone with conscience and remorse, They could not speake and so I left them both, To bring this tidings to the bloudie king. And here he comes, all haile my soueraigne leige. Kind Tirrell am I happie in thy newes. If to haue done the thing you giue in charge, Beget your happinesse, be happie then For it done my Lord. But didst thou see them dead? I did my Lord. And buried gentle Tirrell? The Chaplaine of the tower hath buried them, But how or in what place I do not know. Come to me Tirre soone at after supper, And thou shalt tell the processe of their death, Meane time but thinke how I may do thee good. And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewel til soone. The sonne of Clarence haue I pent vp close, His daughter meanelie haue I matcht in mariage, The sonnes of Edward sleepe in Abrahams bosome, And Anne my wife hath bid the world godnight▪ Now for I know the Brittaine Richmond aimes At young Elizabeth, my brothers daughter, And by that knot lookes proudly ore the crowne, To her I go aillie thiuing wooer, My Lord. Good newes or bad that thou comst in so bluntly?