Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1609 [c.1608-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men unassigned nearest T52 Prodigals, portions and poor kin · 505 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T52: brother, father, uncle, cousin, son, poor, bread, old, given, master.
Uncertain favour. My fault being nothing (as I have told you oft) But that two Villains, whose false Oaths prevailed Before my perfect Honour, swore to Cymbeline, I was Confederate with the Romans: so Followed my Banishment, and this twenty years, This Rock, and these Demesnes, have been my World, Where I have lived at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to Heaven, then in all The fore-end of my time. But, up to ' th' Mountains, This is not Hunter's Language; he that strikes The Venison first, shall be the Lord o' th' Feast, To him the other two shall minister, And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater State: I'll meet you in the Valleys. How hard it is to hide the sparks of Nature? These Boys know little they are Sons to ' th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine, And though trained up thus meanly I' th' Cave, whereon the Bow their thoughts do hit, The Roofs of Palaces, and Nature prompts them In simple and low things, to Prince it, much Beyond the trick of others. This Paladour, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his Father called Guiderius. Ioue, When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my Story: say thus mine Enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck, even than The Princely blood flows in his Cheek, he sweats, Strains his young Nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger Brother Cadwall, Once Aruiragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the Game is roused, Oh Cymbeline, Heaven and my Conscience knows Thou didd'st unjustly banish me: whereon At three, and two years old, I stole these Babes, Thinking to bar thee of Succession, as Thou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile, Thou was't their Nurse, they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave: Myself Belarius, that am Mergan called They take for Natural Father. The Game is up. Thou told'st me when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand: ne'er longed my Mother so To see me first, as I have now. Pisanio, Man: Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th' inward of thee? One, but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplexed Beyond selfe-explication. Put thyself Into a hauiour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider Senses. What's the matter? Why tenderest thou that Paper to me, with A look untender? If't be Summer News Smile too't before: if Winterly, thou needest But keep that countenance still. My Husband's hand? That Drug-damned Italy, hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. Speak man, thy Tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to 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)
Vncertaine fauour. My fault being nothing (as I haue told you oft) But that two Villaines, whoſe falſe Oathes preuayl'd Before my perfect Honor, ſwore to Cymbeline, I was Confederate with the Romanes: ſo Followed my Baniſhment, and this twenty yeeres, This Rocke, and theſe Demeſnes, haue bene my World, Where I haue liu'd at honeſt freedome, payed More pious debts to Heauen, then in all The fore-end of my time. But, vp to' th' Mountaines, This is not Hunters Language; he that ſtrikes The Veniſon firſt, ſhall be the Lord o' th' Feaſt, To him the other two ſhall miniſter, And we will feare no poyſon, which attends In place of greater State: Ile meete you in the Valleyes. How hard it is to hide the ſparkes of Nature? Theſe Boyes know little they are Sonnes to' th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreames that they are aliue. They thinke they are mine, And though train'd vp thus meanely I' th' Caue, whereon the Bowe their thoughts do hit, The Roofes of Palaces, and Nature prompts them In ſimple and lowe things, to Prince it, much Beyond the tricke of others. This Paladour, The heyre of Cymbeline and Britaine, who The King his Father call'd Guiderius. Ioue, When on my three-foot ſtoole I ſit, and tell The warlike feats I haue done, his ſpirits flye out Into my Story: ſay thus mine Enemy fell, And thus I ſet my foote on's necke, euen then The Princely blood flowes in his Cheeke, he ſweats, Straines his yong Nerues, and puts himſelfe in poſture That acts my words. The yonger Brother Cadwall, Once Aruiragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my ſpeech, and ſhewes much more His owne conceyuing. Hearke, the Game is rows'd, Oh Cymbeline, Heauen and my Conſcience knowes Thou didd'ſt vniuſtly baniſh me: whereon At three, and two yeeres old, I ſtole theſe Babes, Thinking to barre thee of Succeſſion, as Thou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile, Thou was't their Nurſe, they took thee for their mother, And euery day do honor to her graue: My ſelfe Belarius, that am Mergan call'd They take for Naturall Father. The Game is vp. Thou told'ſt me when we came frō horſe, ye place Was neere at hand: Ne're long'd my Mother ſo To ſee me firſt, as I haue now. Piſanio, Man: Where is Poſthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee ſtare thus? Wherefore breaks that ſigh From th' inward of thee? One, but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond ſelfe-explication. Put thy ſelfe Into a hauiour of leſſe feare, ere wildneſſe Vanquiſh my ſtayder Senſes. What's the matter? Why tender'ſt thou that Paper to me, with A looke vntender? If't be Summer Newes Smile too't before: if Winterly, thou need'ſt But keepe that count'nance ſtil. My Husbands hand? That Drug-damn'd Italy, hath out-craftied him, And hee's at ſome hard point. Speake man, thy Tongue May take off ſome extreamitie, which to reade Would be euen mortall to me.