Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1607 [c.1606-1608] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 466 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Good my Lord. You have been a boggeler ever, But when we in our viciousness grow hard (Oh misery on't) the wise Gods seel our eyes In our own filth, drop our clear judgements, make us Adore our errors, laugh at's while we strut To our confusion. Oh, is't come to this? I found you as a Morsel, cold upon Dead Caesar's Trencher: Nay, you were a Fragment Of Cneius Pompey's, besides what hotter hours Unregistered in vulgar Fame, you have Luxuriously picked out. For I am sure, Though you can guess what Temperance should be, You know not what it is. Wherefore is this? To let a Fellow that will take rewards, And say, God quit you, be familiar with My playfellow, your hand; this Kingly Seal, And plighter of high hearts. O that I were Upon the hill of Basan to outroar The horned Herd, for I have savage cause, And to proclaim it civilly, were like A haltered neck, which does the Hangman thank, For being you're about him. Is he whipped? Sound, my Lord. Cried he? and begged a Pardon? He did ask favour. If that thy Father live, let him repent Thou was't not made his daughter, and be thou sorry To follow Caesar in his Triumph, since Thou hast been whipped. For following him, henceforth The white hand of a Lady Fever thee, Shake thou to look on't. Get thee back to Caesar, Tell him thy entertainment: look thou say He makes me angry with him. For he seems Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am, Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry, And at this time most easy 'tis to do't: When my good Stars, that were my former guides Have empty left their Orbs, and shot their Fires Into th' Abysm of hell. If he mislike, My speech, and what is done, tell him he has Hiparchus, my enfranched Bondman, whom He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture, As he shall like to quit me. Urge it thou: Hence with thy stripes, be gone. Have you done yet? Alack our Terrene Moon is now Eclipsed, And it portends alone the fall of Anthony. I must stay his time? To flatter Caesar, would you mingle eyes With one that ties his points. Not know me yet? Cold-hearted toward me? Ah (Dear) if I be so, From my cold heart let Heaven engender hail, And poison it in the source, and the first stone Drop in my neck: as it determines so Dissolve my life, the next Caesarian smile, Till by degrees the memory of my womb, Together with my brave Egyptians all, By the discandering of this pelleted storm, Lie gravelesse, till the Flies and Gnats of Nile Have buried them for prey.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T30 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Good my Lord. You haue beene a boggeler euer, But when we in our viciouſneſſe grow hard (Oh miſery on't) the wiſe Gods ſeele our eyes In our owne filth, drop our cleare iudgements, make vs Adore our errors, laugh at's while we ſtrut To our confuſion. Oh, is't come to this? I found you as a Morſell, cold vpon Dead Caeſars Trencher: Nay, you were a Fragment Of Gneius Pompeyes, beſides what hotter houres Vnregiſtred in vulgar Fame, you haue Luxuriouſly pickt out. For I am ſure, Though you can gueſſe what Temperance ſhould be, You know not what it is. Wherefore is this? To let a Fellow that will take rewards, And ſay, God quit you, be familiar with My play-fellow, your hand; this Kingly Seale, And plighter of high hearts. O that I were Vpon the hill of Baſan to out-roare The horned Heard, for I haue ſauage cauſe, And to proclaime it ciuilly, were like A halter'd necke, which do's the Hangman thanke, For being yare about him. Is he whipt? Soundly, my Lord. Cried he? and begg'd a Pardon? He did aske fauour. If that thy Father liue, let him repent Thou was't not made his daughter, and be thou ſorrie To follow Caeſar in his Triumph, ſince Thou haſt bin whipt. For following him, henceforth The white hand of a Lady Feauer thee, Shake thou to looke on't. Get thee backe to Caeſar, Tell him thy entertainment: looke thou ſay He makes me angry with him. For he ſeemes Proud and diſdainfull, harping on what I am, Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry, And at this time moſt eaſie 'tis to doo't: When my good Starres, that were my former guides Haue empty left their Orbes, and ſhot their Fires Into th' Abiſme of hell. If he miſlike, My ſpeech, and what is done, tell him he has Hiparchus, my enfranhed Bondman, whom He may at pleaſure whip, or hang, or torture, As he ſhall like to quit me. Vrge it thou: Hence with thy ſtripes, be gone. Haue you done yet? Alacke our Terrene Moone is now Eclipſt, And it portends alone the fall of Anthony. I muſt ſtay his time? To flatter Caeſar, would you mingle eyes With one that tyes his points. Not know me yet? Cold-hearted toward me? Ah (Deere) if I be ſo, From my cold heart let Heauen ingender haile, And poyſon it in the ſourſe, and the firſt ſtone Drop in my necke: as it determines ſo Diſſolue my life, the next Caeſarian ſmile, Till by degrees the memory of my wombe, Together with my braue Egyptians all, By the diſcandering of this pelleted ſtorme, Lye graueleſſe, till the Flies and Gnats of Nyle Haue buried them for prey.