Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1607 [c.1606-c.1608] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma · 544 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
I have a Tree which grows here in my Close, That mine own use invites me to cut down, And shortly must I fell it. Tell my Friends, Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree, From high to low throughout, that who so please To stop Affliction, let him take his haste; Come hither ere my Tree hath felt the Axe, And hang himself. I pray you do my greeting. Trouble him no further, thus you still shall Find him. Come not to me again, but say to Athens, Timon hath made his everlasting Mansion Upon the Beached Verge of the salt Flood, Who once a day with his embossed Froth The turbulent Surge shall cover; thither come, And let my grave-stone be your Oracle: Lips, let four words go by, and Language end: What is amiss, Plague and Infection mend. Graves only be men's works, and Death their gain; Sun, hide thy Beams, Timon hath done his Reign. His discontents are unremovably coupled to Nature. Our hope in him is dead: let us return, And strain what other means is left unto us In our dear peril. It requires swift foot. Thou hast painfully discovered: are his Files As full as thy report? I have spoke the least. Besides his expedition promises present approach. We stand much hazard, if they bring not Timon. I met a Currier, one mine ancient Friend, Whom though in general part we were opposed, Yet our old love made a particular force, And made us speak like Friends. This man was riding From Alcibiades to Timon's Cave, With Letters of entreaty, which imported His Fellowship i' th' cause against your City, In part for his sake moved. here come our Brothers. No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect, The Enemy's Drum is heard, and fearful scouring Doth choke the air with dust: In, and prepare, Ours is the fall I fear, our Foes the Snare. By all description this should be the place. Whose here? Speak hoa. No answer? What is this? Timon is dead, who hath outstretched his span, Some Beast read this; There does not live a Man. Dead sure, and this his Grave, what's on this Tomb, I cannot read: the Character I'll take with wax, Our Captain hath in every Figure skill; An aged Interpreter, though young in days: Before proud Athens he's set down by this, Whose fall the mark of his Ambition is. Sound to this Coward, and lascivious Town, Our terrible approach. Till now you have gone on, and filled the time With all Licentious measure, making your wills The scope of justice. Till now, myself and such As slept within the shadow of your power Have wandered with our traversed Arms, and breathed Our sufferance vainly: Now the time is flush, When crouching Marrow in the bearer strong Cries (of itself) no more; Now breathless wrong, Shall sit and pant in your great Chairs of ease, And pursy Insolence shall break his wind With fear and horrid flight. Noble, and young; When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit, Ere thou hadst power, or we had cause of fear, We sent to thee, to give thy rages Balm, To wipe out our Ingratitude, with Loves Above their quantity.
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)
I haue a Tree which growes heere in my Cloſe, That mine owne vſe inuites me to cut downe, And ſhortly muſt I fell it. Tell my Friends, Tell Athens, in the ſequence of degree, From high to low throughout, that who ſo pleaſe To ſtop Affliction, let him take his haſte; Come hither ere my Tree hath felt the Axe, And hang himſelfe. I pray you do my greeting. Trouble him no further, thus you ſtill ſhall Finde him. Come not to me againe, but ſay to Athens, Timon hath made his euerlaſting Manſion Vpon the Beached Verge of the ſalt Flood, Who once a day with his emboſſed Froth▪ The turbulent Surge ſhall couer; thither come, And let my graue-ſtone be your Oracle: Lippes, let foure words go by, and Language end: What is amiſſe, Plague and Infection mend. Graues onely be mens workes, and Death their gaine; Sunne, hide thy Beames, Timon hath done his Raigne. His diſcontents are vnremoueably coupled to Nature. Our hope in him is dead: let vs returne, And ſtraine what other meanes is left vnto vs In our deere perill. It requires ſwift foot. Thou haſt painfully diſcouer'd: are his Files As full as thy report? I haue ſpoke the leaſt. Beſides his expedition promiſes preſent approach. We ſtand much hazard, if they bring not Timon. I met a Currier, one mine ancient Friend, Whom though in generall part we were oppos'd, Yet our old loue made a particular force, And made vs ſpeake like Friends. This man was riding From Alcibiades to Timons Caue, With Letters of intreaty, which imported His Fellowſhip i' th' cauſe againſt your City, In part for his ſake mou'd. Heere come our Brothers. No talke of Timon, nothing of him expect, The Enemies Drumme is heard, and fearefull ſcouring Doth choake the ayre with duſt: In, and prepare, Ours is the fall I feare, our Foes the Snare. By all deſcription this ſhould be the place. Whoſe heere? Speake hoa. No anſwer? What is this? Tymon is dead, who hath out-ſtretcht his ſpan, Some Beaſt reade this; There do's not liue a Man. Dead ſure, and this his Graue, what's on this Tomb, I cannot read: the Charracter Ile take with wax, Our Captaine hath in euery Figure skill; An ag'd Interpreter, though yong in dayes: Before proud Athens hee's ſet downe by this, Whoſe fall the marke of his Ambition is. Sound to this Coward, and laſciuious Towne, Our terrible approach. Till now you haue gone on, and fill'd the time With all Licentious meaſure, making your willes The ſcope of Iuſtice. Till now, my ſelfe and ſuch As ſlept within the ſhadow of your power Haue wander'd with our trauerſt Armes, and breath'd Our ſufferance vainly: Now the time is fluſh, When crouching Marrow in the bearer ſtrong Cries (of it ſelfe) no more; Now breathleſſe wrong, Shall ſit and pant in your great Chaires of eaſe, And purſie Inſolence ſhall breake his winde With feare and horrid flight. Noble, and young; When thy firſt greefes were but a meere conceit, Ere thou had'ſt power, or we had cauſe of feare, We ſent to thee, to giue thy rages Balme, To wipe out our Ingratitude, with Loues Aboue their quantitie.