Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1605 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T19 Virtue, Fortune and Vice as abstractions typicality 0.75 · 501 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T19: virtue, fortune, virtues, honour, fame, vice, envy, world, pride, great.
O matter, and impertinency mixed, Reason in Madness. If thou wilt weep my Fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough, thy name is Glouster: Thou must be patiented; we came crying hither: Thou knowst, the first time that we smell the Air We wawle, and cry. I will preach to thee: Mark. Alack, alack the day. When we are borne, we cry that we are come To this great stage of Fools. This a good block: It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A Troop of Horse with Felt: I'll puted in proof, And when I have stolen upon these Son in Laws, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill. Oh here he is: lay hand upon him, Sir. Your most dear Daughter— No rescue? What, a Prisoner? I am even The Natural Fool of Fortune. Use me well, You shall have ransom. Let me have Surgeons, I am cut to ' th' Brains. You shall have any thing. No Seconds? All myself? Why, this would make a man, a man of Salt To use his eyes for Garden water-pots. I will die bravely, Like a smug Bridegroom. What? I will be jovial: Come, come, I am a King, Masters, know you that? You are a Royal one, and we obey you. Then there's life in't. Come, and you get it, You shall get it by running: Sa, sa, sa, sa. A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a King. Thou hast a Daughter Who redeems Nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to. Hail gentle Sir. Sir, speed you: what's your will? Do you hear aught (Sir) of a Battle toward. Most sure, and vulgar: Every one hears that; which can distinguish sound. But by your favour: How near's the other Army? near, and on speedy foot: the main descry Stands on the hourly thought. I thank you Sir, that's all. Though that the Queen on special cause is here Her Army is moved on. I thank you Sir. You ever gentle Gods, take my breath from me, Let not my worse Spirit tempt me again To dye before you please. Well pray you Father. Now good sir, what are you? A most poor man, made tame to Fortune's blows Who, by the Art of known, and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand, I'll lead you to some biding. Heartie thankes: The bounty, and the benison of Heaven To boot, and boot. A proclaimed prize: most happy That eyeless head of thine, was first framed flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old, unhappy Traitor, Briefly thyself remember: the Sword is out That must destroy thee. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough too't. Wherefore, bold Peasant, Darest thou support a published Traitor? Hence, Lest that th' infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arm. Ihill not let go Sir, Without further ' casion. Let go Slave, or thou diest.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 2084–2155 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 38 of 46 in this edition
Length
501 words · 692 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T19 — Virtue, Fortune and Vice as abstractionsreviewed — decision pending · typicality 0.755 (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)
O matter, and impertinency mixt, Reaſon in Madneſſe. If thou wilt weepe my Fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough, thy name is Glouſter: Thou muſt be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know'ſt, the firſt time that we ſmell the Ayre We wawle, and cry. I will preach to thee: Marke. Alacke, alacke the day. When we are borne, we cry that we are come To this great ſtage of Fooles. This a good blocke: It were a delicate ſtratagem to ſhoo A Troope of Horſe with Felt: Ile put't in proofe, And when I haue ſtolne vpon theſe Son in Lawes, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill. Oh heere he is: lay hand vpon him, Sir▪ Your moſt deere Daughter — No reſcue? What, a Priſoner? I am euen The Naturall Foole of Fortune. Vſe me well, You ſhall haue ranſome. Let me haue Surgeons, I am cut to' th' Braines. You ſhall haue any thing. No Seconds? All my ſelfe? Why, this would make a man, a man of Salt To vſe his eyes for Garden water-pots. I wil die brauely, Like a ſmugge Bridegroome. What? I will be Iouiall: Come, come, I am a King, Maſters, know you that? You are a Royall one, and we obey you. Then there's life in't. Come, and you get it, You ſhall get it by running: Sa, ſa, ſa, ſa. A ſight moſt pittifull in the meaneſt wretch, Paſt ſpeaking of in a King. Thou haſt a Daughter Who redeemes Nature from the generall curſe Which twaine haue brought her to. Haile gentle Sir. Sir, ſpeed you: what's your will? Do you heare ought (Sir) of a Battell toward. Moſt ſure, and vulgar: Euery one heares that; which can diſtinguiſh ſound. But by your fauour: How neere's the other Army? Neere, and on ſpeedy foot: the maine deſcry Stands on the hourely thought. I thanke you Sir, that's all. Though that the Queen on ſpecial cauſe is here Her Army is mou'd on. I thanke you Sir. You euer gentle Gods, take my breath from me, Let not my worſer Spirit tempt me againe To dye before you pleaſe. Well pray you Father. Now good ſir, what are you? A moſt poore man, made tame to Fortunes blows Who, by the Art of knowne, and feeling ſorrowes, Am pregnant to good pitty. Giue me your hand, Ile leade you to ſome biding. Heartie thankes: The bountie, and the benizon of Heauen To boot, and boot. A proclaim'd prize: moſt happie That eyeleſſe head of thine, was firſt fram'd fleſh To raiſe my fortunes. Thou old, vnhappy Traitor, Breefely thy ſelfe remember: the Sword is out That muſt deſtroy thee. Now let thy friendly hand Put ſtrength enough too't. Wherefore, bold Pezant, Dar'ſt thou ſupport a publiſh'd Traitor? Hence, Leaſt that th' infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arme. Chill not let go Zir, Without vurther 'caſion. Let go Slaue, or thou dy'ſt.