Shakespeare, William · published 1609 · first performed or written 1602 [1602-1603] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men · Globe T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma typicality 0.85 · 511 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
The bruit is Hector's slain and by Achilles. If it be so yet bragless let it be, Great Hector was as good a man as he. March patiently along: let one be sent, To pray Achilles see us at our tent: If in his death the Gods have us befriended. Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended. Stand ho? yet are we masters of the field, Never go home, here starve we out the night, Hector is slain. Hector! the gods forbid. he's dead and at the murderers horse's tail, In beastly sort dragged through the shameful field: Frown on you heavens, effect your rage with speed, Sat gods upon you thrones, and smile at Troy. I say at once, let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on. My Lord you do discomfort all the host. You understand me not that tell me so, I do not speak of flight, of fear of death But dare all imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone: Who shall tell Priam so or Hecuba? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be called, Go into Troy and say their Hector's dead, There is a word will Priam turn to stone, Make wells and Niobe's of the maids and wives: Could statues of the youth and in a word, scar Troy out of itself, there is no more to say, Stay yet you proud abominable tents: Thus proudly pitched upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare; I'll through, and through you, and thou great sized coward, No space of earth shall sunder our two hates: I'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts, Strike a free march, to Troy with comfort go Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe. But here you, here you. Hence broker, lackey, ignomyny, shame, Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name. A goodly medicine for my aching bones, Oh world, world— thus is the poor agent despised, Oh traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a work, and how ill requited, why should our endeavour be so loved and the performance so loathed, what verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see, Full merrily the humble Bee doth sing, Till he hath lost his honey and his sting. And being once subdued in armed tail, Sweet honey, and sweet notes together fail. Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted clothes, As many as be here of Pandars, hall, Your eyes half out weep out at Pandar' fall. Or if you cannot weep yet give some groans, Though not for me yet for my aching bones: Brethren and sisters of the hold-ore trade, Some two months hence my will shall here be made/ It should be now but that my fear is this, Some gauled goose of Winchester would hiss. Till than i'll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 2790–2847 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 50 of 50 in this edition
Length
511 words · 671 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T7 — The Trojan war: conflict and its aftermathcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.850 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T12 · seed 44: T11 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The bruite is Hectors slaine and by Achilles. If it be so yet braglesse let it bee, Great Hector was as good a man as he. March patiently along: let one bee sent, To pray Achiles see vs at our tent: If in his death the Gods haue vs befriended. Great Troy is ours, and our sharpe wars are ended. Stand ho? yet are we masters of the field, Neuer goe home, here starue we out the night, Hector is slaine. Hector! the gods forbid. Hee's dead and at the murtherers horses taile, In bestly sort dragd through the shamefull field: Frowne on you heauens, effect your rage with speed, Sit gods vpon you thrones, and smile at Troy. I say at once, let your breese plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on. My Lord you doe discomfort all the host. You vnderstand me not that tell me so, I do not speake of flight, of feare of death But dare all immynence that gods and men Addresse their daungers in. Hector is gone: Who shall tell Priam so or Hecuba? Let him that will a scrich-ould aye be call'd, Goe into Troy and say their Hectors dead, There is a word will Priam turne to stone, Make wells and Niebe's of the maides and wiues: Could statues of the youth and in a word, Scarre Troy out of it selfe, there is no more to say, Stay yet you proud abhminable tents: Thus proudly pitcht vpon our Phrigian plaines, Let Tytan rise as earely as he dare; Ile through, and through you, and thou great siz'd coward, No space of earth shall sunder out two hates: Ile haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, That moulderth goblins swift as fienzes thoughts, Strike a free march, to Troy with comfort goe Hope of reueng shall hide our ward woe. But here you, here you. Hence broker, lacky, ignomyny, shame, Pursue thy life, and hue aye with thy name. A goodly medicine for my asking bones, Oh world, world—thus is the poore agent despis'd, Oh traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a worke, and how ill requited, why should our endeuour bee so lou'd and the performance so loathed, what verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see, Full merrily the humble Bee doth sing, Till he hath lost his hony and his sting. And being once sub dude in armed taile, Sweet hony, and sweet notes together faile. Good traiders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloathes, As many as be here of Pandars, , Your eyes halfe out weepe out at Pandars fall. Or if you cannot weepe yet giue some grones, Though not for me yet for my aking bones: Brethren and sisters of the hold-ore trade, Some two monthes hence my will shall here be made▪ It should be now but that my feare is this, Some gauled goose of Winchester would hisse. Till then ile sweat and seeke about for cases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases.