Beaumont, Francis / Fletcher, John · published 1619 · first performed or written 1611 (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · Globe T11 Siblings, kin and confidants typicality 0.78 · 487 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
This is the imprisonment I have looked for always, and the dear place I would choose. Sir, have you done well now? Dare you reprove it? No. You must be crossing me. I have no letters Sir to anger you, But a dry sonnet of my Corporals To an old saddler's wife, and that I'll burn Sir: 'tis like to prove a fine age for the Ignorant. How darest thou so often forfeit thy life, Thou knowest 'tis in my power to take it. Yes, and I know you wonot, or if you do, you'll miss it quickly. Why? Who shall then tell you of these childish follies When I am dead? Who shall put to his power To draw those virtues out of a flood of humours Where they are drowned, and make 'em shine again? No cut my head off: do, kill me: Than you may talk, and be believed, and grow, And have your too self-glorious temper rot Into a dead sleep, and the kingdom with you, Like foreign swords be in your throats, and slaughter Be everywhere about you like your flatterers. Do, kill me. Prithee be tamer good Mardonius, Thou know'st I love thee, nay I honour thee: Believe it good old Soldier I am all thine: But I am racked clean from myself, bear with me, wilt thou bear with me good Mardonius. There comes a good man, love him too, he's temperate, You may live to have need of such a virtue, Rage is not still in fashion. Welcome good Gobrius. My service, and this letter to your grace. From whom? From the rich mine of virtue, and all beauty, Your mournful Sister. She is in prison Gobrius, is she not? She is Sir till your pleasure do enlarge her, Which on my knees I beg; O 'tis not fit That all the sweetness of the world in one; The youth, and virtue, that would have wild Tigers And wilder people, that have known no manners Should live thus cloistered up, For your loves sake (If there be any in that Noble heart) To her a wretched Lady, and forlorn, Or for her love to you, (which is as much As Nature, and obedience ever gave) Have pity on her beauties. Prithee stand up, 'tis true she is too Fair, And all these commendations but her own: Would thou hadst never so commended her, Or I near lived to have heard it, Gobrius; If thou but knew of the wrong her beauty does her, Thou wouldst in pity of her be a liar: Thy ignorance has drawn me wretched man Whether myself nor thou canst well tell, O my Fate, I think she loves me; but I fear another Is deeper in her heart: how thinkst thou Gobrius? I do beseech your Grace believe it not, For let me perish if it be not false: Good Sir read her letter.
nodes 1688–1749 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 33 of 49 in this edition
Length
487 words · 648 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T11 — Siblings, kin and confidantscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.785 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T15 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
This is the impriſonment I haue lookt for alwayes, and the deare place I would chuſe. Sir, haue you done well now? Dare you reproue it? No. You muſt be croſſing me. I haue no letters Sir to anger you, But a dry ſonnet of my Corporals To an old Sadlers wife, and that Ile burne Sir: Tis like to proue a fine age for the Ignorant. How dareſt thou ſo often forfeit thy life, Thou knoweſt tis in my power to take it. Yes, and I know you wonnot, or if you doe, youle miſſe it quicklie. Why? Who ſhall then tell you of theſe childiſh follies When I am dead? Who ſhall put to his power To draw thoſe vertues out of a floud of humours Where they are drownd, and make vm ſhine againe? No cut my head off: doe, kill me: Then you may talke, and be beleeud, and grow, And haue your too ſelfe-glorious temper rot Into a dead ſleepe, and the kingdome with you, Like forraigne ſwords be in your throats, and ſlaughter Be euery where about you like your flatterers. Doe, kill me. Prethee be tamer good Mardonius, Thou knowſt I loue thee, nay I honour thee: Beleeue it good old Souldier I am all thine: But I am rackt cleane from my ſelfe, beare with me, Woot thou beare with me good Mardonius. There comes a good man, loue him too, hees temperate, You may liue to haue need of ſuch a vertue, Rage is not ſtill in faſhion. VVelcome good Gobrius. My ſeruice, and this letter to your grace. From whom? From the rich mine of vertue, and all beautie, Your mournefull Siſter. She is in priſon Gobrius, is ſhee not? She is Sir till your pleaſure doe enlarge her, Which on my knees I beg; O tis not fit That all the ſweetneſſe of the world in one; The youth, and vertue, that would haue wilde Tygers And wilder people, that haue knowne no manners Should liue thus Cloyſterd vp, For your loues ſake (If there be any in that Noble heart) To her a wretched Ladie, and forlorne, Or for her loue to you, (which is as much As Nature, and obedience euer gaue) Haue pittie on her beauties. Prethee ſtand vp, tis true ſhe is too Faire, And all theſe commendations but her owne: VVould thou hadſt neuer ſo commended her, Or I nere liu'd to haue heard it, Gobrius; If thou but knew of the wrong her beautie does her, Thou wouldſt in pittie of her be a lyar: Thy ignorance has drawne me wretched man VVhether my ſelfe nor thou canſt well tell, O my Fate, I thinke ſhee loues me; but I feare another Is deeper in her heart: how thinkſt thou Gobrius? I doe beſeech your Grace beleeue it not, For let me periſh if it be not falſe: Good Sir reade her letter.