Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.77 · 476 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the days, Compare dead happiness with living woe, Think that thy babes were fairer than they were, And he that slew them fouler than he is, Bettering thy loss makes the bad causer worse, Revolving this, will teach thee how to curse. My words are dull, O quicken them with thine. Thy woes will make them sharp, & pierce like mine. Why should calamity be full of words? Windy attorneys to your Client woes, A erie succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing Orators of miseries, Let them have scope, though what they do impart, Help not at all, yet do they ease the heart. I● so, then be not toong-tide, go with me, And in the breath of bitter words let's smother My damned son, which thy two sweet sons smothered, I hear his drum, be copious in exclaims. Who intercepts my expedition? A she, that might have intercepted thee By strangling thee in her accursed womb, From all the slaughters wretch, that thou hast done. Hidst thou that forehead with a golden crown Where should be graven, if that right were right, The slaughter of the Prince that owed that Crown, And the dire death of my two sons, and brothers: Tell me thou villain slave, where are my children? Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence? And little Ned Plantagenet, his son? Where is kind, Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grace? A flourish trumpet's, strike alarm drums, Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women Rail on the Lords anointed. Strike I say. Either be patiented, and entreat me fair, Or with the clamorus report of war: Thus will I drown your exclamations. Art thou my son? I, I thank God, my father and yourself. Then patiently here my impatience. Madam I have a touch of your condition, Which cannot brook the accent of reproof. I will be mild and gentle in my speech. And brief good mother for I am in haste. Art thou so hasty I have stayed for thee, God knows in anguish, pain and agony. And came I not at last to comfort you? No by the holy rood thou know'st it well, Thou camest on earth to make the earth my hell, A grievous burden was thy birth to me, Techie and wayward was thy infancy, Thy schoele-days frightful, desperate, wild, and furious. Thy prime of manhood, daring, bold and venturous, Thy age confirmed, proud, subtile, bloody, treacherous, What comfortable hour canst thou name That ever grac't me in thy company? Faith none but Humphrey hour, that called your grace To break fast once forth of my company, If I be so disgracious in your sight, Let me march on, and not offend your grace. O hear me speak for I shall never see thee more. Come, come, you art too bitter.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 2596–2656 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 42 of 54 in this edition
Length
476 words · 646 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.771 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Forbeare to sleepe the nights, and fast the daies, Compare dead happinesse with liuing woe, Thinke that thy babes were fairer then they were, And he that slew them fouler then he is, Bettring thy losse makes the bad causer worse, Reuoluing this, wil teach thee how to curse. My words ae dul, O quicken them with thine. Thy woes wil make them sharp, & pierce like mine. Why should calamitie be ful of words? Windie aturnies to your Client woes, A erie succeeders of inteate ioies, Poore breathing Orators of miseries, Let them haue scope, though what they do impart, Helpe not at al, yet do they ease the hart. I so, then be not toong-tide, go with me, And in the breath of bitter words lets smother My damned sonne, which thy two sweet sons smotherd, I heare his drum, be copious in exclaimes. Who intercepts my expedition? A she, that might haue intercepted thee By strangling thee in her accursed wombe, From al the slaughters wretch, that thou hast done. Hidst thou that forehead with a golden crowne Where should be grauen, if that right were right, The slaughter of the Prince that owed that Crowne, And the dire death of my two sonnes, and brothers: Tel me thou villaine slaue, where are my children? Thou tode, thou tode, where is thy brother Clarence? And little Ned Plantagenet, his sonne? Where is kind, Hastings, Riuers, aughan, Gray? A flouish trumpets, strike alarum drummes, Let not the heauens heare these tel-tale women Raile on the Lords annointed. Strike I saie. Either be patient, and intreat me faire, Or with the clamorus report of war: Thus will I drowne your exclamations. Art thou my son? I, I thanke God, my father and your selfe. Then patiently here my impatience. Madam I haue a touch of your condition, Which cannot brooke the accent of reproofe. I will be mild and gentle in my speach. And briefe good mother for I am in hast. Art thou so hastie I haue staid for thee, God knowes in anguish, paine and agonie. And came I not at last to comfort you? No by the holie roode thou knowst it well, Thou camst on earth to make the earth my hell, A greuous burthen was thy berth to me, Techie and waiward was thy infancie, Thy schoele-daies frightful, desperate, wild, and furious. Thy prime of manhood, daring, bold and venturous, Thy age confirmed, proud, fubtile, bloudie, trecherous, What comfortable houre canst thou name That euer gract me in thy companie? Faith none but Humphrey houre, that cald your grace To breake fast once forth of my companie, If I be so disgracious in your sight, Let me march on, and not offend your grace. O heare me speake for I shal neuer see thee more. Come, come, you art too bitter.