Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1591 [1590-1591] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.81 · 528 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
No, I defy all Counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true Redress: Death, death, O amiable, lovely death, Thou odoriferous stench: sound rottenness, Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, Thou hate and terror to prosperity, And I will kiss thy detestable bones, And put my eyeballs in thy vaultie brows, And ring these fingers with thy household worms, And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust, And be a Carrion Monster like thyself; Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st, And buss thee as thy wife: Miseries Love, O come to me. O fair affliction, peace. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry: O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth, Then with a passion would I shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell Anatomy Which cannot hear a Ladies feeble voice, Which scorns a modern Invocation. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow. Thou art holy to belie me so, I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine, My name is Constance, I was Geffrey's wife, Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost: I am not mad, I would to heaven I were, For then 'tis like I should forget myself: O, if I could, what grief should I forget? Preach some Philosophy to make me mad, And thou shalt be Canonized (Cardinal.) For, being not mad, but sensible of grief, My reasonable part produces reason How I may be delivered of these woes, And teaches me to kill or hang myself: If I were mad, I should forget my son, Or madly think a babe of clowes were he: I am not mad: too well, too well I feel The different plague of each calamity. Bind up those tresses: O what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs; Where but by chance a silver drop hath fall'n, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry fiends Do glue themselves in sociable grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity. To England, if you will. Bind up your hairs. Yes that I will: and wherefore will I do it? I tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud, O, that these hands could so redeem my son, As they have given these hairs their liberty: But now I envy at their liberty, And will again commit them to their bonds, Because my poor child is a prisoner. And Father Cardinal, I have heard you say That we shall see and know our friends in heaven: If that be true, I shall see my boy again; For since the birth of Cain, the first male-child To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature borne: But now will Canker-sorrow eat my bud, And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he will look as hollow as a Ghost, As dim and meager as an Agues fit, And so he'll dye: and rising so again, When I shall meet him in the Court of heaven I shall not know him: therefore never, never Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
nodes 1354–1422 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 22 of 41 in this edition
Length
528 words · 685 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.814 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
No, I defie all Counſell, all redreſſe, But that which ends all counſell, true Redreſſe: Death, death, O amiable, louely death, Thou odoriferous ſtench: ſound rottenneſſe, Ariſe forth from the couch of laſting night, Thou hate and terror to proſperitie, And I will kiſſe thy deteſtable bones, And put my eye-balls in thy vaultie browes, And ring theſe fingers with thy houſhold wormes, And ſtop this gap of breath with fulſome duſt, And be a Carrion Monſter like thy ſelfe; Come, grin on me, and I will thinke thou ſmil'ſt, And buſſe thee as thy wife: Miſeries Loue, O come to me. O faire affliction, peace. No, no, I will not, hauing breath to cry: O that my tongue were in the thunders mouth, Then with a paſſion would I ſhake the world, And rowze from ſleepe that fell Anatomy Which cannot heare a Ladies feeble voyce, Which ſcornes a moderne Inuocation. Lady, you vtter madneſſe, and not ſorrow. Thou art holy to belye me ſo, I am not mad: this haire I teare is mine, My name is Conſtance, I was Gffreyes wife, Yong Arthur is my ſonne, and he is loſt: I am not mad, I would to heauen I were, For then 'tis like I ſhould forget my ſelfe: O, if I could, what griefe ſhould I forget? Preach ſome Philoſophy to make me mad, And thou ſhalt be Canoniz'd (Cardinall.) For, being not mad, but ſenſible of greefe, My reaſonable part produces reaſon How I may be deliuer'd of theſe woes, And teaches mee to kill or hang my ſelfe: If I were mad, I ſhould forget my ſonne, Or madly thinke a babe of clowes were he: I am not mad: too well, too well I feele The different plague of each calamitie. Binde vp thoſe treſſes: O what loue I note In the faire multitude of hoſe her haires; Where but by chance a ſiluer drop hath falne, Euen to that drop ten thouſand wiery fiends Doe glew themſelues in ſociable griefe, Like true, inſeparable, faithfull loues, Sticking together in calamitie. To England, if you will. Binde vp your haires. Yes that I will: and wherefore will I do it? I tore them from their bonds, and cride aloud, O, that theſe hands could ſo redeeme my ſonne, As they haue giuen theſe hayres their libertie: But now I enuie at their libertie, And will againe commit them to their bonds, Becauſe my poore childe is a priſoner. And Father Cardinall, I haue heard you ſay That we ſhall ſee and know our friends in heauen: If that be true, I ſhall ſee my boy againe; For ſince the birth of Caine, the firſt male-childe To him that did but yeſterday ſuſpire, There was not ſuch a gracious creature borne: But now will Canker-ſorrow eat my bud, And chaſe the natiue beauty from his cheeke, And he will looke as hollow as a Ghoſt, As dim and meager as an Agues fitte, And ſo hee'll dye: and riſing ſo againe, When I ſhall meet him in the Court of heauen I ſhall not know him: therefore neuer, neuer Muſt I behold my pretty Arthur more.