Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1603 [1603-1604] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T11 Siblings, kin and confidants · 504 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
Even so it was with me when I was young: If ever we are natures, these are ours, this thorn Doth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong Our blood to us, this to our blood is borne, It is the show, and seal of nature's truth, Where loves strong passion is impressed in youth, By our remembrances of days foregone, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eye is sick on't, I observe her now. What is your pleasure Madam? You know Helen I am a mother to you. Mine honourable Mistress. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I said a mother Me thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of those That were enwombed mine, 'tis often seen Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds A native slip to us from foreign seeds: You ne'er oppressed me with a mother's groan, Yet I express to you a mother's care, (God's mercy maiden) does it cured thy blood To say I am thy mother? what's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet? The many coloured Iris rounds thine eye? Why, that you are my daughter? That I am not. I say I am your Mother. Pardon Madam. The Count Rosillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honoured name: No note upon my Parents, his all noble, My Master, my dear Lord he is, and I His servant live, and will his vassal die: He must not be my brother. Nor I your Mother. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your son were not my brother, Indeed my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, than I do for heaven, So I were not his sister, cant no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother. Yes Helen, you might be my daughter in law, God shield you mean it not, daughter and mother So strive upon your pulse; what pale again? My fear hath catcht your fondness! now I see The mistress of your loveliness, and find Your salt tears head, now to all sense 'tis gross: You love my son, invention is ashamed Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis so, for look, thy cheeks Confess it ' tun tooth to th' other, and thine eyes See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours, That in their kind they speak it, only sin And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue That truth should be suspected, speak, is't so? If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue: If it be not, forsweareed how ere I charge thee, As heaven shall work in me for thine avail To tell me truly. Good Madam pardon me. Do you love my Son? Your pardon noble Mistress. Love you my Son?
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)
Euen ſo it vvas vvith me when I was yong: If euer vve are natures, theſe are ours, this thorne Doth to our Roſe of youth righlie belong Our bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne, It is the ſhow, and ſeale of natures truth, Where loues ſtrong paſſion is impreſt in youth, By our remembrances of daies forgon, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none, Her eie is ſicke on't, I obſerue her now. What is your pleaſure Madam? You know Hellen I am a mother to you. Mine honorable Miſtris. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I ſed a mother Me thought you ſaw a ſerpent, what's in mother, That you ſtart at it? I ſay I am your mother, And put you in the Catalogue of thoſe That were enwombed mine, 'tis often ſeene Adoption ſtriues vvith nature, and choiſe breedes A natiue ſlip to vs from forraine ſeedes: You nere oppreſt me with a mothers groane, Yet I expreſſe to you a mothers care, (Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood To ſay I am thy mother? vvhat's the matter, That this diſtempered meſſenger of wet? The manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? —Why, that you are my daughter? That I am not. I ſay I am your Mother. Pardon Madam. The Count Roſillion cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honored name: No note vpon my Parents, his all noble, My Maſter, my deere Lord he is, and I His ſeruant liue, and will his vaſſall die: He muſt not be my brother. Nor I your Mother. You are my mother Madam, would you were So that my Lord your ſonne were not my brother, Indeede my mother, or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, then I doe for heauen, So I were not his ſiſter, cant no other, But I your daughter, he muſt be my brother. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law, God ſhield you meane it not, daughter and mother So ſtriue vpon your pulſe; vvhat pale agen? My feare hath catcht your fondneſſe! now I ſee The miſtrie of your louelineſſe, and finde Your ſalt teares head, now to all ſence 'tis groſſe: You loue my ſonne, inuention is aſham'd Againſt the proclamation of thy paſſion To ſay thou dooſt not: therefore tell me true, But tell me then 'tis ſo, for looke, thy cheekes Confeſſe it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies See it ſo groſely ſhowne in thy behauiours, That in their kinde they ſpeake it, onely ſinne And helliſh obſtinacie tye thy tongue That truth ſhould be ſuſpected, ſpeake, iſt ſo? If it be ſo, you haue wound a goodly clewe: If it be not, forſweare't how ere I charge thee, As heauen ſhall worke in me for thine auaile To tell me truelie. Good Madam pardon me. Do you loue my Sonne? Your pardon noble Miſtris. Loue you my Sonne?