Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1605 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T11 Siblings, kin and confidants typicality 0.80 · 498 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
Cry to it Nuncle, as the Cockney did to the Ecles, when she put 'em i' th' Paste alive, she knapped 'em o' th' coxcombs with a stick, and cried down wantoness, down; 'twas her Brother, that in pure kindness to his Horse buttered his Hay. Good morrow to you both. Hail to your Grace. I am glad to see your Highness. Regan, I think your are. I know what reason I have to think so, if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy Mother Tomb, Sepulchering an adulteress. O are you free? Some other time for that. Beloved Regan, Thy Sisters naught: oh Regan, she hath tied Sharpe-toothed unkindness, like a vulture here, I can scarce speak to thee, thou'lt not believe With how depraved a quality. Oh Regan. I pray you Sir, take patience, I have hope You less know how to value her desert, Then she to scant her duty. Say? How is that? I cannot think my Sister in the least Would fail her Obligation. If Sir perchance She have restrained the Riots of your Followres, 'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from all blame. My curses on her. O Sir, you are old, Nature in you stands on the very Verge Of his confine: you should be ruled, and led By some discretion, that discerns your state Better than you yourself: therefore I pray you, That to our Sister, you do make return, Say you have wronged her. Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house? Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg, That you'll vouchsafe me Raiment, Bed, and Food. Good Sir, no more: these are unsightly tricks: Return you to my Sister. Never Regan: She hath abated me of half my Train; Looked black upon me, strooke me with her Tongue Most Serpentlike, upon the very Heart. All the stored Vengeances of Heaven, fall On her ingrateful top: strike her young bones You taking Airs, with Lameness. Fie sir. fie. You nimble Lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes: Infect her Beauty, You Fen-sucked Fogs, drawn by the powerful Sun, To fall, and blister. O the blessed Gods! So will you wish on me, when the rash mood is on. No Regan, thou shalt never have my curse: Thy tender-hefted Nature shall not give Thee o'er to harshness: Her eyes are fierce, but thine Do comfort, and not burn. 'Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my Train, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against my coming in. Thou better knowst The Offices of Nature, bond of Childhood, Effects of Courtesy, dues of Gratitude: Thy half o' th' Kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endowed. Good Sir, to ' th' purpose. Who put my man i' th' Stocks? What Trumpet's that?
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1088–1153 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 21 of 46 in this edition
Length
498 words · 709 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T11 — Siblings, kin and confidantscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.801 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T15 · seed 44: T12 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Cry to it Nunckle, as the Cockney did to the Ecles, when ſhe put 'em i' th' Paſte aliue, ſhe knapt 'em o' th' coxcombs with a ſticke, and cryed downe wantons, downe; 'twas her Brother, that in pure kindneſſe to his Horſe buttered his Hay. Good morrow to you both. Haile to your Grace. I am glad to ſee your Highneſſe. Regan, I thinke your are. I know what reaſon I haue to thinke ſo, if thou ſhould'ſt not be glad, I would diuorce me from thy Mother Tombe, Sepulchring an Adultreſſe. O are you free? Some other time for that. Beloued Regan, Thy Siſters naught: oh Regan, ſhe hath tied Sharpe-tooth'd vnkindneſſe, like a vulture heere, I can ſcarce ſpeake to thee, thou'lt not beleeue With how deprau'd a quality. Oh Regan. I pray you Sir, take patience, I haue hope You leſſe know how to value her deſert, Then ſhe to ſcant her dutie. Say? How is that? I cannot thinke my Siſter in the leaſt Would faile her Obligation. If Sir perchance She haue reſtrained the Riots of your Followres, 'Tis on ſuch ground, and to ſuch wholeſome end, As cleeres her from all blame. My curſes on her. O Sir, you are old, Nature in you ſtands on the very Verge Of his confine: you ſhould be rul'd, and led By ſome diſcretion, that diſcernes your ſtate Better then you your ſelfe: therefore I pray you, That to our Siſter, you do make returne, Say you haue wrong'd her. Aske her forgiueneſſe? Do you but marke how this becomes the houſe? Deere daughter, I confeſſe that I am old; Age is vnneceſſary: on my knees I begge, That you'l vouchſafe me Rayment, Bed, and Food. Good Sir, no more: theſe are vnſightly trickes: Returne you to my Siſter. Neuer Regan: She hath abated me of halfe my Traine; Look'd blacke vpon me, ſtrooke me with her Tongue Moſt Serpent-like, vpon the very Heart. All the ſtor'd Vengeances of Heauen, fall On her ingratefull top: ſtrike her yong bones You taking Ayres, with Lameneſſe. Fye ſir. fie. You nimble Lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her ſcornfull eyes: Infect her Beauty, You Fen-ſuck'd Fogges, drawne by the powrfull Sunne, To fall, and bliſter. O the bleſt Gods! So will you wiſh on me, when the raſh moode is on. No Regan, thou ſhalt neuer haue my curſe: Thy tender-hefted Nature ſhall not giue Thee o're to harſhneſſe: Her eyes are fierce, but thine Do comfort, and not burne. 'Tis not in thee To grudge my pleaſures, to cut off my Traine, To bandy haſty words, to ſcant my ſizes, And in concluſion, to oppoſe the bolt Againſt my comming in. Thou better know'ſt The Offices of Nature, bond of Childhood, Effects of Curteſie, dues of Gratitude: Thy halfe o' th' Kingdome haſt thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow'd. Good Sir, to' th' purpoſe. Who put my an i' th' Stockes? What Trumpet's that?