Beaumont, Francis / Fletcher, John · published 1619 · first performed or written 1611 (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · Globe unassigned nearest T11 Siblings, kin and confidants · 496 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
You mean this Lady, lift her from the earth; Why do you let her kneel so long? alas, Madam your beauty uses to command, And not to beg; what is your suit to me? It shall be granted, yet the time is short, And my affairs are great: but where's my sister? I bade she should be brought. What is he mad? Gobrius, where is she? Sir. Where is she man? Who Sir? Who, hast thou forgot? my Sister. Your Sister Sir? Your Sister Sir? Some one that has a wit, answer; where is she? Do you not see her there? Where? There. There, where? 'Slight there, are you blind? Which do you mean, that little one? No Sir. No Sir, why do you mock me? I can see. No other here, but that petitioning Lady: That's she. Away. Sir it is she: 'tis false. Is it? As hell, by Heaven as false as hell, My sister: Is she dead? if it be so, Speak boldly to me: for I am a man, And dare not quarrel with divinity; But do not think to cozen me with this: I see you all are mute, and stand amazed, Fearful to answer me; it is too true A decreed instant cuts off every life, For which to mourn, is to repine; she died A Virgin though, more innocent than sleeps, As clear as her own eyes, and blessedness Eternal waits upon her where she is: I know she could not make a wish to change Her state for new, and you shall see me bear My crosses like a man; we all must die, And she hath taught us how. Do not mistake, And vex yourself for nothing; for her death Is a long life of yet I hope: 'tis she, And if my speech deserve not faith, lay death Upon me, and my latest words shall force A credit from you. Which good Gobrius, That Lady dost thou mean? That Lady Sir. It cannot be. Pish, this is tedious, I cannot hold, I must present myself; And yet the sight of my Spaconia, Touches me, as a sudden thunderclap Does one that is about to sin. Away, No more of this; here I pronounce him Traitor, The direct plotter of my death that names, Or thinks her for my Sister: 'tis a lie, The most malicious of the World, invented To mad your King; he that will say so next, Let him draw out his Sword, and sheath it here, It is a sin fully as pardonable: She is no kin to me, nor shall she be; If she were any, I create her none, And which of you can question this, my power Is like the Sea, that is to be obeyed, And not disputed with: I have decreed her As far from having part of blood with me, As the naked Indians: Come, and answer me, He that is boldest now; Is that my Sister?
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)
You meane this Lady, lift her from the earth; Why doe you let her kneele ſo long? alas, Madam your beauty vſes to command, And not to beg; what is your ſute to me? It ſhall be granted, yet the time is ſhort, And my affaires are great: but wheres my ſiſter? I bad ſhee ſhould be brought. What is he mad? Gobrius, where is ſhee? Sir. Where is ſhee man? Who Sir? Who, haſt thou forgot? my Siſter. Your Siſter Sir? Your Siſter Sir? Some one that has a wit, anſwere; where is ſhee? Doe you not ſee her there? Where? There. There, where? S'light there, are you blind? Which doe you meane, that little one? No Sir. No Sir, why doe you mocke me? I can ſee. No other here, but that petitioning Ladie: Thats ſhee. Away. Sir it is ſhee: Tis falſe. Is it? As hell, by Heauen as falſe as hell, My ſiſter: Is ſhee dead? if it be ſo, Speake boldly to me: for I am a man, And dare not quarrell with diuinity; But doe not thinke to coſen me with this: I ſee you all are mute, and ſtand amaſ'd, Fearefull to anſwere me; it is too true A decreed inſtant cuts off euery life, For which to mourne, is to repine; ſhee died A Virgin though, more innocent then ſleeps, As cleere as her owne eyes, and bleſſedneſſe Eternall waites vpon her where ſhee is: I know ſhee could not make a wiſh to change Her ſtate for new, and you ſhall ſee me beare My croſſes like a man; we all muſt die, And ſhee hath taught vs how. Doe not miſtake, And vex your ſelfe for nothing; for her death Is a long life of I hope: Tis ſhee, And if my ſpeech deſerue not faith, lay death Vpon me, and my lateſt words ſhall force A credit from you. Which good Gobrius, That Ladie doſt thou meane? That Lady Sir. It cannot be. Piſh, this is tedious, I cannot hold, I muſt preſent my ſelfe; And yet the ſight of my Spaconia, Touches me, as a ſudden thunderclap Does one that is about to ſinne. Away, No more of this; here I pronounce him Traytor, The direct plotter of my death that names, Or thinkes her for my Siſter: Tis a lie, The moſt malicious of the World, inuented To mad your King; he that will ſay ſo next, Let him draw out his Sword, and ſheath it here, It is a ſinne fully as pardonable: Shee is no kinne to me, nor ſhall ſhee be; If ſhee were any, I create her none, And which of you can queſtion this, my power Is like the Sea, that is to be obey'd, And not diſputed with: I haue decreed her As farre from hauing part of bloud with me, As the nak'd Indians: Come, and anſwer me, He that is boldeſt now; Is that my Siſter?