Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 507 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Whether should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world: where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly. Why then (alas) Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm? What are these faces? Where is your Husband? I hope in no place so unsanctified, Where such as thou may'st find him. He's a Traitor. Thou liest thou shagge-eared Villain. What you Egg? Young fry of Treachery? He has killed me Mother, Run away I pray you. Let us seek out some desolate shade, & there Weep our sad bosoms empty. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal Sword: and like good men, Bestride our downfall Birthdome: each new Morn, New Widows howl, new Orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yelled out Like Syllable of Dolour. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend: I wil. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This Tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well, He hath not touched you yet. I am young, but something You may discern of him through me, and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor innocent Lamb T' appease an angry God. I am not treacherous. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous Nature may recoil In an Imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon: That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose; Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul, would wear the brows of grace Yet Grace must still look so. I have lost my Hopes. Perchance even there Where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you Wife, and Child? Those precious Motives, those strong knots of Love, Without leaue-taking. I pray you, Let not my jealousies, be your Dishonours, But mine own Safeties: you may be rightly just, What ever I shall think. Bleed, bleed poor Country, Great Tyrrany, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee: wear thou thy wrongs, The Title, is affear'd. Far thee well Lord, I would not be the Villain that thou thinkest, For the whole Space that's in the Tyrants Grasp, And the rich East to boot. Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you: I think our Country sinks beneath the yoke, It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right: And here from gracious England have I offer Of goodly thousands. But for all this, When I shall tread upon the Tyrant's head, Or wear it on my Sword; yet my poor Country Shall have more vices than it had before, More suffer, and more sundry ways then ever, By him that shall succeed.
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)
Whether ſhould I flye? I haue done no harme. But I remember now I am in this earthly world: where to do harme Is often laudable, to do good ſometime Accounted dangerous folly. Why then (alas) Do I put vp that womanly defence, To ſay I haue done no harme? What are theſe faces? Where is your Husband? I hope in no place ſo vnſanctified, Where ſuch as thou may'ſt finde him. He's a Traitor. Thou ly'ſt thou ſhagge-ear'd Villaine. What you Egge? Yong fry of Treachery? He ha's kill'd me Mother, Run away I pray you. Let vs ſeeke out ſome deſolate ſhade, & there Weepe our ſad boſomes empty. Let vs rather Hold faſt the mortall Sword: and like good men, Beſtride our downfall Birthdome: each new Morne, New Widdowes howle, new Orphans cry, new ſorowes Strike heauen on the face, that it reſounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like Syllable of Dolour. What I beleeue, Ile waile; What know, beleeue; and what I can redreſſe, As I ſhall finde the time to friend: I wil. What you haue ſpoke, it may be ſo perchance. This Tyrant, whoſe ſole name bliſters our tongues, Was once thought honeſt: you haue lou'd him well, He hath not touch'd you yet. I am yong, but ſomething You may diſcerne of him through me, and wiſedome To offer vp a weake, poore innocent Lambe T' appeaſe an angry God. I am not treacherous. But Macbeth is. A good and vertuous Nature may recoyle In an Imperiall charge. But I ſhall craue your pardon: That which you are, my thoughts cannot tranſpoſe; Angels are bright ſtill, though the brighteſt fell. Though all things foule, would wear the brows of grace Yet Grace muſt ſtill looke ſo. I haue loſt my Hopes. Perchance euen there Where I did finde my doubts. Why in that rawneſſe left you Wife, and Childe? Thoſe precious Motiues, thoſe ſtrong knots of Loue, Without leaue-taking. I pray you, Let not my Iealouſies, be your Diſhonors, But mine owne Safeties: you may be rightly iuſt, What euer I ſhall thinke. Bleed, bleed poore Country, Great Tyrrany, lay thou thy baſis ſure, For goodneſſe dare not check thee: wear yu thy wrongs, The Title, is affear'd. Far thee well Lord, I would not be the Villaine that thou think'ſt, For the whole Space that's in the Tyrants Graſpe, And the rich Eaſt to boot. Be not offended: I ſpeake not as in abſolute feare of you: I thinke our Country ſinkes beneath the yoake, It weepes, it bleeds, and each new day a gaſh Is added to her wounds. I thinke withall, There would be hands vplifted in my right: And heere from gracious England haue I offer Of goodly thouſands. But for all this, When I ſhall treade vpon the Tyrants head, Or weare it on my Sword; yet my poore Country Shall haue more vices then it had before, More ſuffer, and more ſundry wayes then euer, By him that ſhall ſucceede.