Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 452 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
Now near enough: Your leafy Skreenes throw down, And show like those you are: You (worthy Uncle) Shall with my Cousin your right Noble Son Lead our first Battle. Worthy Macduffe, and we Shall take upon's what else remains to do, According to our order. Far you well: Do we but find the Tyrant's power to night, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. Make all our Trumpets speak, give them all breath Those clamorous Harbingers of Blood, & Death. They have tied me to a stake, I cannot fly, But Bear-like I must fight the course. What's he That was not borne of Woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none. What is thy name? Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. No: though thou call'st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell. My name's Macbeth. The devil himself could not pronounce a Title More hateful to mine ear. No: nor more fearful. Thou liest abhorred Tyrant, with my Sword I'll prove the lie thou speakest. Thou was't borne of woman; But Swords I smile at, Weapons laugh to scorn, Brandished by man that's of a Woman borne. That way the noise is: Tyrant show thy face, If thou be'st slain, and with no stroke of mine, My Wife and children's Ghosts will haunt me still: I cannot strike at wretched Kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves; either thou Macbeth, Or else my Sword with an unbattered edge I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be, By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him Fortune, And more I beg not. This way my Lord, the Castles gently rendered: The Tyrant's people, on both sides do fight, The Noble Thanes do bravely in the War, The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do. We have met with Foes That strike beside us. Enter Sir, the Castle. Why should I play the Roman Fool, and dye On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them. Turn Hellhound, turn. Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back, my soul is too much charged With blood of thine already. I have no words, My voice is in my Sword, thou bloodier Villain Than terms can give thee out. Thou losest labour, As easy may'st thou the intrenchant Air With thy keen Sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable Crests, I bear a charmed Life, which must not yield To one of woman borne. Despair thy Charm, And let the Angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee, Macduffe was from his Mother's womb Untimely ripped.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T45 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Now neere enough: Your leauy Skreenes throw downe, And ſhew like thoſe you are: You (worthy Vnkle) Shall with my Coſin your right Noble Sonne Leade our firſt Battell. Worthy Macduffe, and wee Shall take vpon's what elſe remaines to do, According to our order. Fare you well: Do we but finde the Tyrants power to night, Let vs be beaten, if we cannot fight. Make all our Trumpets ſpeak, giue thē all breath Thoſe clamorous Harbingers of Blood, & Death. They haue tied me to a ſtake, I cannot flye, But Beare-like I muſt fight the courſe. What's he That was not borne of Woman? Such a one Am I to feare, or none. What is thy name? Thou'lt be affraid to heare it. No: though thou call'ſt thy ſelfe a hoter name Then any is in hell. My name's Macbeth. The diuell himſelfe could not pronounce a Title More hatefull to mine eare. No: nor more fearefull. Thou lyeſt abhorred Tyrant, with my Sword Ile proue the lye thou ſpeak'ſt. Thou was't borne of woman; But Swords I ſmile at, Weapons laugh to ſcorne, Brandiſh'd by man that's of a Woman borne. That way the noiſe is: Tyrant ſhew thy face, If thou beeſt ſlaine, and with no ſtroake of mine, My Wife and Childrens Ghoſts will haunt me ſtill: I cannot ſtrike at wretched Kernes, whoſe armes Are hyr'd to beare their Staues; either thou Macbeth, Or elſe my Sword with an vnbattered edge I ſheath againe vndeeded. There thou ſhould'ſt be, By this great clatter, one of greateſt note Seemes bruited. Let me finde him Fortune, And more I begge not. This way my Lord, the Caſtles gently rendred: The Tyrants people, on both ſides do fight, The Noble Thanes do brauely in the Warre, The day almoſt it ſelfe profeſſes yours, And little is to do. We haue met with Foes That ſtrike beſide vs. Enter Sir, the Caſtle. Why ſhould I play the Roman Foole, and dye On mine owne ſword? whiles I ſee liues, the gaſhes Do better vpon them. Turne Hell-hound, turne. Of all men elſe I haue auoyded thee: But get thee backe, my ſoule is too much charg'd With blood of thine already. I haue no words, My voice is in my Sword, thou bloodier Villaine Then tearmes can giue thee out. Thou looſeſt labour, As eaſie may'ſt thou the intrenchant Ayre With thy keene Sword impreſſe, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable Creſts, I beare a charmed Life, which muſt not yeeld To one of woman borne. Diſpaire thy Charme, And let the Angell whom thou ſtill haſt ſeru'd Tell thee, Macduffe was from his Mothers womb Vntimely ript.