Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1610 [c.1610-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men unassigned nearest T14 Royal love, favour and dynastic relation · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes First hand me: on mine own accord, I'll off, But first, I'll do my errand. The good Queen (For she is good) hath brought you forth a daughter, here 'tis: Commends it to your blessing. Out: A mankind Witch? Hence with her, out o'dore: A most intelligencing bawd. Not so: I am as ignorant in that, as you, In so entit'ling me: and no less honest Than you are mad: which is enough, I'll warrant (As this world goes) to pass for honest: Traitors; Will you not push her out? Give her the Bastard, Thou dotard, thou art woman-tyred: unroosted By thy dame Partlet here. Take up the Bastard, Take't up, I say: give't to thy Crone. For ever Vnvenerable be thy hands, if thou Tak'st up the Princess, by that forced baseness Which he has put upon't. He dreads his Wife. So I would you did: then 'twere past all doubt you'd call your children, yours. A nest of Traitors. I am none, by this good light. Nor I: nor any But one that's here: and that's himself: for he, The sacred Honour of himself, his Queens, His hopeful Sons, his Babes, betrays to Slander, Whose sting is sharper than the Swords; and will not (For as the case now stands, it is a Curse He cannot be compelled too't) once remove The Root of his Opinion, which is rotten, As ever Oak, or Stone was sound. A Callat Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her Husband, And now baits me: This Brat is none of mine, It is the Issue of Polixenes, Hence with it, and together with the Dam, Commit them to the fire. It is yours: And might we lay th' old Proverb to your charge, So like you, 'tis the worse. Behold (my Lords) Although the Print be little, the whole Matter And Copy of the Father: (Eye, Nose, Lip, The trick of's Frown, his Forehead, nay, the Valley, The pretty dimples of his Chin, and Cheek; his Smiles: The very Mould, and frame of Hand, Nail, Finger.) And thou good Goddess Nature, which hast made it So like to him that got it, if thou hast The ordering of the Mind too, 'mongst all Colours No Yellow in't, lest she suspect, as he does, Her Children, not her Husbands. A gross Hag: And Lozel, thou art worthy to be hanged, That wilt not stay her Tongue. Hang all the Husbands That cannot do that Feat, you'll leave yourself Hardly one Subject. Once more take her hence. A most unworthy, and unnatural Lord Can do no more. I'll ha' thee burnt. I care not: It is an Heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in't. I'll not call you Tyrant: But this most cruel usage of your Queen (Not able to produce more accusation Than your own weake-hindged Fancy) something savours Of Tyranny, and will ignoble make you, Yea, scandalous to the World.
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)
Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes Firſt hand me: on mine owne accord, Ile off, But firſt, Ile do my errand. The good Queene (For ſhe is good) hath brought you forth a daughter, Heere 'tis: Commends it to your bleſsing. Out: A mankinde Witch? Hence with her, out o'dore: A moſt intelligencing bawd. Not ſo: I am as ignorant in that, as you, In ſo entit'ling me: and no leſſe honeſt Then you are mad: which is enough, Ile warrant (As this world goes) to paſſe for honeſt: Traitors; Will you not puſh her out? Giue her the Baſtard, Thou dotard, thou art woman-tyr'd: vnrooſted By thy dame Partlet heere. Take vp the Baſtard, Take't vp, I ſay: giue't to thy Croane. For euer Vnvenerable be thy hands, if thou Tak'ſt vp the Princeſſe, by that forced baſeneſſe Which he ha's put vpon't. He dreads his Wife. So I would you did: then 'twere paſt all doubt Youl'd call your children, yours. A neſt of Traitors. I am none, by this good light. Nor I: nor any But one that's heere: and that's himſelfe: for he, The ſacred Honor of himſelfe, his Queenes, His hopefull Sonnes, his Babes, betrayes to Slander, Whoſe ſting is ſharper then the Swords; and will not (For as the caſe now ſtands, it is a Curſe He cannot be compell'd too't) once remoue The Root of his Opinion, which is rotten, As euer Oake, or Stone was ſound. A Callat Of boundleſſe tongue, who late hath beat her Husband, And now bayts me: This Brat is none of mine, It is the Iſſue of Polixenes, Hence with it, and together with the Dam, Commit them to the fire. It is yours: And might we ly th' old Prouerb to your charge, So like you, 'tis the worſe. Behold (my Lords) Although the Print be little, the whole Matter And Coppy of the Father: (Eye, Noſe, Lippe, The trick of's Frowne, his Fore-head, nay, the Valley, The pretty dimples of his Chin, and Cheeke; his Smiles: The very Mold, and frame of Hand, Nayle, Finger.) And thou good Goddeſſe Nature, which haſt made it So like to him that got it, if thou haſt The ordering of the Mind too, 'mongſt all Colours No Yellow in't, leaſt ſhe ſuſpect, as he do's, Her Children, not her Husbands. A groſſe Hagge: And Lozell, thou art worthy to be hang'd, That wilt not ſtay her Tongue. Hang all the Husbands That cannot doe that Feat, you'le leaue your ſelfe Hardly one Subiect. Once more take her hence. A moſt vnworthy, and vnnaturall Lord Can doe no more. Ile h' thee burnt. I care not: It is an Heretique that makes the fire, Not ſhe which burnes in't. Ile not call you Tyrant: But this moſt cruell vſage of your Queene (Not able to produce more accuſation Then your owne weake-hindg'd Fancy) ſomthing ſauors Of Tyrannie, and will ignoble make you, Yea, ſcandalous to the World.