Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil typicality 0.80 · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
Is Clarence dead? The Order was reversed. But he (poor man) by your first order died, And that a winged Mercury did bear: Some tardy Cripple bore the Countermand, That came too lag to see him buried. God grant, that some less Noble, and less Loyal, Neerer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood, Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did, And yet go currant from Suspicion. A boon my Sovereign for my service done. I prithee peace, my soul is full of sorrow. I will not rise, unless your Highness hear me. Then say at once, what is it thou requests. The forfeit (Sovereign) of my servant's 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 that tongue give pardon to a slave? My Brother killed no man, his fault was Thought, And yet his punishment was bitter death. Who sued to me for him? Who (in my wrath) Kneeled and my feet, and bid me be advised? Who spoke of Brotherhood? who spoke 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 at Tewksbury, 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 Garments, and did give himself (All thin and naked) to the numb cold night? All this from my Remembrance, brutish wrath Sinfully plucked, and not a man of you Had so much grace to put it in my mind. But when your Carters, or your waiting 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 beg for his life. O 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. Ah poor Clarence. This is the fruits of rashness: Marked you not, How that the guilty Kindred of the Queen Looked pale, when they did hear of Clarence death. O! they did urge it still unto the King, God will revenge it. Come Lords will you go, To comfort Edward with our company. We wait upon your Grace. Good Grandam tell us, is our Father dead? No Boy. Why do weep so oft? And beat your Breast? And cry, O Clarence, my unhappy Son. Why do you look on us, and shake your head, And call us Orphans, Wretches, castaways, If that our Noble Father were alive?
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)
Is Clarence dead? The Order was reuerſt. But he (poore man) by your firſt order dyed, And that a winged Mercurie did beare: Some tardie Cripple bare the Countermand, That came too lagge to ſee him buried. God grant, that ſome leſſe Noble, and leſſe Loyall, Neerer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood, Deſerue not worſe then wretched Clarence did, And yet go currant from Suſpition. A boone my Soueraigne for my ſeruice done. I prethee peace, my ſoule is full of ſorrow. I will not riſe, vnleſſe your Highnes heare me. Then ſay at once, what is it thou requeſts. The forfeit (Soueraigne) of my ſeruants 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 that tongue giue pardon to a ſlaue? My Brother kill'd no man, his fault was Thought, And yet his puniſhment was bitter death. Who ſued to me for him? Who (in my wrath) Kneel'd and my feet, and bid me be aduis'd? Who ſpoke of Brother-hood? who ſpoke of loue? Who told me how the poore ſoule did forſake The mighty Warwicke, and did fight for me? Who told me in the field at Tewkesbury, 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 lap me Euen in his Garments, and did giue himſelfe (All thin and naked) to the numbe cold night? All this from my Remembrance, brutiſh wrath Sinfully pluckt, and not a man of you Had ſo much grace to put it in my minde. But when your Carters, or your wayting Vaſſalls Haue done a drunken Slaughter, and defac'd The precious Image of our deere 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 (vngracious) ſpeake vnto my ſelfe For him poore Soule. The proudeſt of you all, Haue bin beholding to him in his life: Yet none of you, would once begge for his life. O God! I feare thy iuſtice will take hold On me, and you; and mine, and yours for this. Come Haſtings helpe me to my Cloſſet. Ah poore Clarence. This is the fruits of raſhnes: Markt you not, How that the guilty Kindred of the Queene Look'd pale, when they did heare of Clarence death. O! they did vrge it ſtill vnto the King, God will reuenge it. Come Lords will you go, To comfort Edward with our company. We wait vpon your Grace. Good Grandam tell vs, is our Father dead? No Boy. Why do weepe ſo oft? And beate your Breſt? And cry, O Clarence, my vnhappy Sonne. Why do you looke on vs, and ſhake your head, And call vs Orphans, Wretches, Caſtawayes, If that our Noble Father were aliue?