Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1611 (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T2 Roman politics: senate, consuls and civi typicality 0.81 · 511 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
With the old needy troops, that followed Sulla: And all do but expect, when we will give The blow at home. Behold this silver eagle, 'Twas Marius' standard, in the Cimbrian war, Fatal to Rome; and, as our augurs tell me, Shall still be so: for which one ominous cause, I'have kept it safe, and done it sacred rites, As to a godhead, in a chapel built Of purpose to it. Pledge then all your hands, To follow it, with vows of death, and ruin, Struck silently, and home. So waters speak When they run deepest. Now's the time, this year, The twentieth, from the firing of the Capitol, As fatal too, to Rome, by all predictions: And, in which, honoured LENTULUS must rise A king, if he pursue it. If he do not, He is not worthy the great destiny. It is too great for me, but what the gods, And their great loves decree me, I must not Seem careless of. No, nor we envious. We have enough beside, all Gallia, Belgia, Greece, Spain, and Afrique. ay, and Asia too, Now POMPEY is returning. Noblest Romans, methinks our looks, are not so quick and high, As they were wont. No? whose is not? We have No anger in our eyes, no storm, no lightning: Our hate is spent, and fumed away in vapour, Before our hands be at work. I can accuse Not any one, but all of slackness. Yes, And be yourself such, while you do it. Ha? 'Tis sharply answered, CAIUS. Truly, truly. Come, let us each one know his part to do, And then be accused. Leave these untimely quarrels. I would there were more Rome's then one, to ruin. More Rome's? More worlds. Nay, then, more gods, and natures, If they took part. When shall the time be, first? I think the saturnals. 'Twill be too long. They are not now far off, 'tis not a month. A week, a day, an hour is too far off, Now, were the fittest time. We ha' not laid All things so safe, and ready. While we're laying, We shall all lie; and grow to earth. Would I Were nothing in it, if not now. These things They should be done, ere thought. Nay, now your reason Forsakes you, CAIUS. Think, but what commodity That time will minister; the City's custom Of being, then, in mirth, and feast— Loosed whole In pleasure and security— Each house Resolved in freedom— Every slave a master— And they too no mean aides— Made from their hope Of liberty— Or hate unto their lords. 'Tis sure, there cannot be a time found out More apt, and natural. Nay, good CETHEGUS, Why do your passions, now, disturb our hopes? Why do your hopes delude your certainties? You must lend him his way. Think, for the order, And process of it. Yes. I like not fire: 'Twill too much waste my city. Were it embers, There will be wealth enough, raked out of them, To spring a new. It must be fire, or nothing.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 916–999 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 14 of 37 in this edition
Length
511 words · 722 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T2 — Roman politics: senate, consuls and civil warcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.806 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T1 · seed 44: T2 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
With the old needie troops, that follow'd SYLLA: And all doe but expect, when we will giue The blow at home. Behold this siluer eagle, 'Twas MARIVS standard, in the Cimbrian warre, Fatall to Rome; and, as our augures tell me, Shall still be so: for which one ominous cause, I'haue kept it safe, and done it sacred rites, As to a god-head, in a chappell built Of purpose to it. Pledge then all your hands, To follow it, with vowes of death, and ruine, Strooke silently, and home. So waters speake When they runne deepest. Now's the time, this yeere, The twenti'th, from the firing of the Capitol, As fatall too, to Rome, by all predictions: And, in which, honor'd LENTVLVS must rise A king, if he pursue it. If he doe not, He is not worthy the great destinie. It is too great for me, but what the gods, And their great loues decree me, I must not Seeme carelesse of. No, nor we enuious. We haue enough beside, all Gallia, Belgia, Greece, Spaine, and Africke. I, and Asia too, Now POMPEY is returning. Noblest Romanes, Me thinkes our lookes, are not so quicke and high, As they were wont. No? whose is not? We haue No anger in our eyes, no storme, no lightning: Our hate is spent, and fum'd away in vapor, Before our hands be' at worke. I can accuse Not any one, but all of slacknesse. Yes, And be your selfe such, while you doe it. Ha? 'Tis sharply answer'd, CAIVS. Truly, truly. Come, let vs each one know his part to doe, And then be accus'd. Leaue these vntimely quarrells. I would there were more Romes then one, to ruine. More Romes? More worlds. Nay, then, more gods, and natures, If they tooke part. When shall the time be, first? I thinke the Saturnalls. 'Twill be too long. They are not now farre off, 'tis not a month. A weeke, a day, an houre is too farre off, Now, were the fittest time. We ha' not laid All things so safe, and readie. While we'are laying, We shall all lye; and grow to earth. Would I Were nothing in it, if not now. These things They should be done, e're thought. Nay, now your reason Forsakes you, CAIVS. Thinke, but what commodity That time will minister; the cities custome Of being, then, in mirth, and feast— Loos'd whole In pleasure and securitie— Each house Resolu'd in freedome— Euery slaue a master— And they too no meane aides— Made from their hope Of libertie— Or hate vnto their lords. 'Tis sure, there cannot be a time found out More apt, and naturall. Nay, good CETHEGVS, Why doe your passions, now, disturbe our hopes? Why doe your hopes delude your certainties? You must lend him his way. Thinke, for the order, And processe of it. Yes. I like not fire: 'Twill too much wast my citie. Were it embers, There will be wealth enough, rak't out of them, To spring a new. It must be fire, or nothing.