Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1602 [1602-1603] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma typicality 0.80 · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
How my achievements mock me; I will go meet them: and my Lord Aeneas, We met by chance; you did not find me here. Good, good, my Lord, the secrets of nature Have not more gift in taciturnity. Is't possible? no sooner got but lost: the devil take Antenor; the young Prince will go mad: a plague upon Antenor; I would they had brok's neck. How now? what's the matter? who was here? Ah, ha'! Why sigh you so profoundly? where's my Lord? gone? tell me sweet Uncle, what's the matter? Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above. O the gods! what's the matter? Prithee get thee in: would thou hadst ne'er been borne; I knew thou wouldst be his death. O poor Gentleman: a plague upon Antenor. Good Uncle I beseech you, on my knees, I beseech you what's the matter? Thou must be gone wench, thou must be gone; thou art changed for Antenor: thou must to thy Father, and be gone from Troilus: 'twill be his death: 'twill be his bane, he cannot bear it. O you immortal gods! I will not go. Thou must. I will not Uncle: I have forgot my Father: I know no touch of consanguinity: No kin, no love, no blood, no soul, so near me, As the sweet Troilus: O you gods divine! Make Cressida's name the very crown of falsehood! If ever she leave Troilus: time, orce and death, Do to this body what extremity you can; But the strong base and building of my love, Is as the very Centre of the earth, Drawing all things to it. I will go in and weep. Do, do. Tear my bright heir, and scratch my praised cheeks, Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy. It is great morning, and the hour prefixed Of her delivery to this valiant Greek Comes fast upon: good my brother Troilus, Tell you the Lady what she is to do, And hast her to the purpose. Walk into her house: I'll bring her to the Grecian presently; And to his hand, when I deliver her, Think it an Altar, and thy brother Troilus A Priest, there offering to it his heart. I know what 'tis to love, And would, as I shall pity, I could help. Please you walk in, my Lords. Be moderate, be moderate. Why tell you me of moderation? The grief is fine, full perfect that I taste, And no less in a sense as strong As that which causeth it. How can I moderate it? If I could temporise with my affection, Or brew it to a weak and colder palate, The like alaiment could I give my grief: My love admits no qualifying cross; No more my grief, in such a precious loss.
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)
How my atchieuements mocke me; I will goe meete them: and my Lord Aeneas, We met by chance; you did not finde me here. Good, good, my Lord, the ſecrets of nature Haue not more gift in taciturnitie. Is't poſſible? no ſooner got but loſt: the diuell take Anthenor; the yong Prince will goe mad: a plague vpon Anthenor; I would they had brok's necke. How now? what's the matter? who was here? Ah, ha! Why ſigh you ſo profoundly? wher's my Lord? gone? tell me ſweet Vnckle, what's the matter? Would I were as deepe vnder the earth as I am aboue. O the gods! what's the matter? Prythee get thee in: would thou had'ſt nere been borne; I knew thou would'ſt be his death. O poore Gentleman: a plague vpon Anthenor. Good Vnckle I beſeech you, on my knees, I beſeech you what's the matter? Thou muſt be gone wench, thou muſt be gone; thou art chang'd for Anthenor: thou muſt to thy Father, and be gone from Troylus: 'twill be his death: 'twill be his baine, he cannot beare it▪ O you immortall gods! I will not goe. Thou muſt. I will not Vnckle: I haue forgot my Father: I know no touch of conſanguinitie: No kin, no loue, no bloud, no ſoule, ſo neere me, As the ſweet Troylus: O you gods diuine! Make Creſſids name the very crowne of falſhood! If euer ſhe leaue Troylus: time, orce and death, Do to this body what extremitie you can; But the ſtrong baſe and building of my loue, Is as the very Center of the earth, Drawing all things to it. I will goe in and weepe. Doe, doe. Teare my bright heire, and ſcratch my praiſed cheekes, Cracke my cleere voyce with ſobs, and breake my heart With ſounding Troylus. I will not goe from Troy. It is great morning, and the houre prefixt Of her deliuerie to this valiant Greeke Comes faſt vpon: good my brother Troylus, Tell you the Lady what ſhe is to doe, And haſt her to the purpoſe. Walke into her houſe: Ile bring her to the Grecian preſently; And to his hand, when I deliuer her, Thinke it an Altar, and thy brother Troylus A Prieſt, there offring to it his heart. I know what 'tis to loue, And would, as I ſhall pittie, I could helpe. Pleaſe you walke in, my Lords. Be moderate, be moderate. Why tell you me of moderation? The griefe is fine, full perfect that I taſte, And no leſſe in a ſenſe as ſtrong As that which cauſeth it. How can I moderate it? If I could temporiſe with my affection, Or brew it to a weake and colder pallat, The like alaiment could I giue my griefe: My loue admits no qualifying croſſe; No more my griefe, in ſuch a precious loſſe.