Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1605 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.80 · 511 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Good Gentleman go your gate, and let poor volke pass: and ' I'd ha' been zwaggerd out of my life, 'twould not ha'bin so long as 'tis, by a fortnight. Nay, come not near th' old man: keep out i vor'ye, or ice try whither your Costard, or my Ballow be the harder; Ihill be plain with you. Out Dunghill. Ihill pick your teeth Sir: come, no matter vor your foins. Slave thou hast slain me: Villain, take my purse; If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body, And give the Letters which thou findest about me, To Edmund Earl of Glouster: seek him out Upon the English party. Oh untimely death, death. I know thee well. A serviceable Villain, As duteous to the vices of thy Mistress, As badness would desire. What, is he dead? Sat you down Father: rest you. Let's see these Pockets; the Letters that he speaks of May be my Friends: he's dead; I am only sorry He had no other Deathsman. Let us see: Leave gentle wax, and manners: blame us not To know our enemy's minds, we rip their hearts, Their Papers is more lawful. LEt our reciprocall vowes be remembred. You haue manie opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done. If hee returne the Conqueror, then am I the Prisoner, and his bed, my Gaole, from the loathed warmth whereof, deliuer me, and supply the place for your Labour. Your (Wife, so I would say) affectionate Seruant. Gonerill. Oh indinguished space of Woman's will, A plot upon her virtuous Husband's life, And the exchange my Brother: here, in the sands Thee I'll rake up, the post unsanctified Of murderous Lechers: and in the mature time, With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practiced Duke: for him 'tis well, That of thy death, and business, I can tell. The King is mad: How stiff is my vild sense That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge Sorrows? Better I were distract, So should my thoughts be severed from my griefs, And woes, by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves. Give me your hand: far off methinks I hear the beaten Drum. Come Father, I'll bestow you with a Friend. O thou good Kent, How shall I live and work To match thy goodness? My life will be too short, And every measure fail me. To be acknowledged Madam is ore-paied, All my reports go with the modest truth, Nor more, nor clipped, but so. Be better suited, These weeds are memories of those worse hours: I prithee put them off. Pardon dear Madam, Yet to be known shortens my made intent, My boon I make it, that you know me not, Till time, and I, think meet. Then be't so my good Lord: How does the King? Madam sleeps still. O you kind Gods! Cure this great breach in his abused Nature, Th' untuned and jarring senses, O wind up, Of this childe-changed Father.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 2156–2215 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 39 of 46 in this edition
Length
511 words · 729 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T0 — Court life: dukes, favour and honourcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.803 (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)
Good Gentleman goe your gate, and let poore volke paſſe: and 'chud ha' bin zwaggerd out of my life, 'twould not ha'bin zo long as 'tis, by a vortnight. Nay, come not neere th' old man: keepe out che vor'ye, or ice try whither your Coſtard, or my Ballow be the harder; chill be plaine with you. Out Dunghill. Chill picke your teeth Zir: come, no matter vor your foynes. Slaue thou haſt ſlaine me: Villain, take my purſe; If euer thou wilt thriue, bury my bodie, And giue the Letters which thou find'ſt about me, To Edmund Earle of Glouſter: ſeeke him out Vpon the Engliſh party. Oh vntimely death, death. I know thee well. A ſeruiceable Villaine, As duteous to the vices of thy Miſtris, As badneſſe would deſire. What, is he dead? Sit you downe Father: reſt you. Let's ſee theſe Pockets; the Letters that he ſpeakes of May be my Friends: hee's dead; I am onely ſorry He had no other Deathſman. Let vs ſee: Leaue gentle waxe, and manners: blame vs not To know our enemies mindes, we rip their hearts, Their Papers is more lawfull. LEt our reciprocall vowes be remembred. You haue manie opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done. If hee returne the Conqueror, then am I the Priſoner, and his bed, my Gaole, from the loathed warmth whereof, deliuer me, and ſupply the place for your Labour. Your (Wife, ſo I would ſay) affectionate Seruant. Gonerill. Oh indinguiſh'd ſpace of Womans will, A plot vpon her vertuous Husbands life, And the exchange my Brother: heere, in rhe ſands Thee Ile rake vp, the poſte vnſanctified Of murtherous Letchers: and in the mature time, With this vngracious paper ſtrike the ſight Of the death-practis'd Duke: for him 'tis well, That of thy death, and buſineſſe, I can tell. The King is mad: How ſtiffe is my vilde ſenſe That I ſtand vp, and haue ingenious feeling Of my huge Sorrowes? Better I were diſtract, So ſhould my thoughts be ſeuer'd from my greefes, And woes, by wrong imaginations looſe The knowledge of themſelues. Giue me your hand: Farre off methinkes I heare the beaten Drumme. Come Father, Ile beſtow you with a Friend. O thou good Kent, How ſhall I liue and worke To match thy goodneſſe? My life will be too ſhort, And euery meaſure faile me. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd, All my reports go with the modeſt truth, Nor more, nor clipt, but ſo. Be better ſuited, Theſe weedes are memories of thoſe worſer houres: I prythee put them off. Pardon deere Madam, Yet to be knowne ſhortens my made intent, My boone I make it, that you know me not, Till time, and I, thinke meet. Then be't ſo my good Lord: How do's the King? Madam ſleepes ſtill. O you kind Gods! Cure this great breach in his abuſed Nature, Th' vntun'd and iarring ſenſes, O winde vp, Of this childe-changed Father.