Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1609 [c.1608-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 492 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
How, how? Another? You gentle Gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next, With bonds of death. Remain, remain thou here, While sense can keep it on: And sweetest, fairest, As I (my poor self) did exchange for you To your so infinite loss; so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this, It is a Manacle of Love, I'll place it Upon this fairest Prisoner. O the Gods! When shall we see again? Alack, the King. Thou basest thing, avoid hence, from my sight: If after this command thou fraught the Court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away, Thou'rt poison to my blood. The Gods protect you, And bless the good Remainders of the Court: I am gone. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heapest A years age on mee I beseech you Sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation, I am senseless of your Wrath; a Touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. Past Grace? Obedience? Past hope, and in despair, that way past Grace. That mightst have had The sole Son of my Queen. O blessed, that I might not: I chose an Eagle, And did avoid a Puttock. Thou took'st a Beggar, wouldst have made my Throne, a Seat for baseness. No, I rather added a lustre to it. O thou vild one! Sir, It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus: You bred him as my Playfellow, and he is A man, worth any woman: Ouer-buyes me Almost the sum he pays. What? art thou mad? Almost Sir: Heaven restore me: would I were A Neat-heards Daughter, and my Leonatus Our Neighbour-Shepheards Son. Thou foolish thing; They were again together: you have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up. Beseech your patience: Peace Dear Lady daughter, peace. Sweet Sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice. Nay let her languish A drop of blood a day, and being aged die of this Folly. Fie, you must give way: here is your Servant. How now Sir? What news? My Lord your Son, drew on my Master. Ha? No harm I trust is done? There might have been, But that my Master rather played, then fought, And had no help of Anger: they were parted By Gentlemen, at hand. I am very glad on't. Your Son's my Father's friend, he takes his part To draw upon an Exile. O brave Sir, I would they were in Africa both together, Myself by with a Needle, that I might prick The goer back. Why came you from your Master? On his command: he would not suffer me To bring him to the Haven: left these Notes Of what commands I should be subject too, When't pleased you to employ me.
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)
How, how? Another? You gentle Gods, giue me but this I haue, And ſeare vp my embracements from a next, With bonds of death. Remaine, remaine thou heere, While ſenſe can keepe it on: And ſweeteſt, faireſt, As I (my poore ſelfe) did exchange for you To your ſo infinite loſſe; ſo in our trifles I ſtill winne of you. For my ſake weare this, It is a Manacle of Loue, Ile place it Vpon this fayreſt Priſoner. O the Gods! When ſhall we ſee againe? Alacke, the King. Thou baſeſt thing, auoyd hence, from my ſight: If after this command thou fraught the Court With thy vnworthineſſe, thou dyeſt. Away, Thou'rt poyſon to my blood. The Gods protect you, And bleſſe the good Remainders of the Court: I am gone. There cannot be a pinch in death More ſharpe then this is. O diſloyall thing, That ſhould'ſt repayre my youth, thou heap'ſt A yeares age on me I beſeech you Sir, Harme not your ſelfe with your vexation, I am ſenſeleſſe of your Wrath; a Touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all feares. Paſt Grace? Obedience? Paſt hope, and in diſpaire, that way paſt Grace. That might'ſt haue had The ſole Sonne of my Queene. O bleſſed, that I might not: I choſe an Eagle, And did auoyd a Puttocke. Thou took'ſt a Begger, would'ſt haue made my Throne, a Seate for baſeneſſe. No, I rather added a luſtre to it. O thou vilde one! Sir, It is your fault that I haue lou'd Poſthumus: You bred him as my Play-fellow, and he is A man, worth any woman: Ouer-buyes mee Almoſt the ſumme he payes. What? art thou mad? Almoſt Sir: Heauen reſtore me: would I were A Neat-heards Daughter, and my Leonatus Our Neighbour-Shepheards Sonne. Thou fooliſh thing; They were againe together: you haue done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her vp. Beſeech your patience: Peace Deere Lady daughter, peace. Sweet Soueraigne, Leaue vs to our ſelues, and make your ſelf ſome comfort Out of your beſt aduice. Nay let her languiſh A drop of blood a day, and being aged Dye of this Folly. Fye, you muſt giue way: Heere is your Seruant. How now Sir? What newes? My Lord your Sonne, drew on my Maſter. Hah? No harme I truſt is done? There might haue beene, But that my Maſter rather plaid, then fought, And had no helpe of Anger: they were parted By Gentlemen, at hand. I am very glad on't. Your Son's my Fathers friend, he takes his part To draw vpon an Exile. O braue Sir, I would they were in Affricke both together, My ſelfe by with a Needle, that I might pricke The goer backe. Why came you from your Maſter? On his command: he would not ſuffer mee To bring him to the Hauen: left theſe Notes Of what commands I ſhould be ſubiect too, When't pleas'd you to employ me.