Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1608 (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T2 Roman politics: senate, consuls and civi typicality 0.84 · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
All the contagion of the South, light on you, You Shames of Rome: you Herd of Byles and Plagues Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorred Farther then seen, and one infect another Against the Wind a mile: you souls of Geese, That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From Slaves, that Apes would beat; Pluto and Hell, All hurt behind, backs red, and faces pale With flight and agued fear, mend and charge home, Or by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the Foe, And make my Wars on you: Look too't: Come on, If you'll stand fast, we'll beat them to their Wives, As they us to our Trenches follows. So, now the gates are open: now prove good Seconds, 'Tis for the followers Fortune, widens them, Not for the flyers: Mark me, and do the like. Foolhardiness, not I Nor I. See they have shut him in. To th' pot I warrant him. What is become of Martius? Slain (Sir) doubtless. Following the Flyers at the very heels, With them he enters: who upon the sudden Clapped to their Gates, he is himself alone, To answer all the City. Oh Noble Fellow! Who sensibly outdares his senseless Sword, And when it bows, standest up: Thou art left Martius, A Carbuncle entire: as big as thou art Wear not so rich a jewel. Thou was't a Soldier Even to Calf's wish, not fierce and terrible Only in strokes, but with thy grim looks, and The Thunderlike percussion of thy sounds Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the World Were Feavorous, and did tremble. Look Sir. O 'tis Martius. Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike. This will I carry to Rome. And I this. A Murrain on't, I took this for Silver. See here these movers, that do prise their hours At a cracked Drachma: Cushions, Leaden Spoons, Irons of a Doit, Doublets that Hangmen would Bury with those that wore them. These base slaves, Ere yet the fight be done, pack up, down with them. And hark, what noise the General makes: To him There is the man of my soul's hate, Auffidious, Piercing our Romans: Then Valiant Titus take Convenient Numbers to make good the City, Whilst I with those that have the spirit, will haste To help Cominius. Worthy Sir, thou bleedest, Thy exercise hath been too violent, For a second course of Fight. Sir, praise me not: My work hath yet not warmed me. Far you well: The blood I drop, is rather Physical Then dangerous to me: To Auffidious thus, I will appear and fight. Now the fair Goddess Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy Opposers swords, Bold Gentleman: Prosperity be thy Page. Thy Friend no less, Then those she placeth highest: So farewell. Thou worthiest Martius, Go sound thy Trumpet in the Market place, Call thither all the Officers o' th' Town, Where they shall know our mind. Away.
seed 43: T1 · seed 44: T2 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
All the contagion of the South, light on you, You Shames of Rome: you Heard of Byles and Plagues Plaiſter you o're, that you may be abhorr'd Farther then ſeene, and one infect another Againſt the Winde a mile: you ſoules of Geeſe, That beare the ſhapes of men, how haue you run From Slaues, that Apes would beate; Pluto and Hell, All hurt behinde, backes red, and faces pale With flight and agued feare, mend and charge home, Or by the fires of heauen, Ile leaue the Foe, And make my Warres on you: Looke too't: Come on, If you'l ſtand faſt, wee'l beate them to their Wiues, As they vs to our Trenches followes. So, now the gates are ope: now proue good Seconds, 'Tis for the followers Fortune, widens them, Not for the flyers: Marke me, and do the like. Foole-hardineſſe, not I. Nor I. See they haue ſhut him in. To th' pot I warrant him. What is become of Martius? Slaine (Sir) doubtleſſe. Following the Flyers at the very heeles, With them he enters: who vpon the ſodaine Clapt to their Gates, he is himſelfe alone, To anſwer all the City. Oh Noble Fellow! Who ſenſibly out-dares his ſenceleſſe Sword, And when it bowes, ſtand'ſt vp: Thou art left Martius, A Carbuncle intire: as big as thou art Weare not ſo rich a Iewell. Thou was't a Souldier Euen to Calues wiſh, not fierce and terrible Onely in ſtrokes, but with thy grim lookes, and The Thunder-like percuſſion of thy ſounds Thou mad'ſt thine enemies ſhake, as if the World Were Feauorous, and did tremble. Looke Sir. O 'tis Martius. Let's fetch him off, or make remaine alike. This will I carry to Rome. And I this. A Murrain on't, I tooke this for Siluer. See heere theſe mouers, that do prize their hours At a crack'd Drachme: Cuſhions, Leaden Spoones, Irons of a Doit, Dublets that Hangmen would Bury with thoſe that wore them. Theſe baſe ſlaues, Ere yet the fight be done, packe vp, downe with them. And harke, what noyſe the Generall makes: To him There is the man of my ſoules hate, Auffidious, Piercing our Romanes: Then Valiant Titus take Conuenient Numbers to make good the City, Whil'ſt I with thoſe that haue the ſpirit, wil haſte To helpe Cominius. Worthy Sir, thou bleed'ſt, Thy exerciſe hath bin too violent, For a ſecond courſe of Fight. Sir, praiſe me not: My worke hath yet not warm'd me. Fare you well: The blood I drop, is rather Phyſicall Then dangerous to me: To Auffidious thus, I will appear and fight. Now the faire Goddeſſe Fortune, Fall deepe in loue with thee, and her great charmes Miſguide thy Oppoſers ſwords, Bold Gentleman: Proſperity be thy Page. Thy Friend no leſſe, Then thoſe ſhe placeth higheſt: So farewell. Thou worthieſt Martius, Go ſound thy Trumpet in the Market place, Call thither all the Officers a' th' Towne, Where they ſhall know our minde. Away.