Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1609 [c.1608-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
So Sir: I desire of you A Conduct over Land, to Milford-haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office: The due of Honour, in no point omit: So farewell Noble Lucius. Your hand, my Lord. Receive it friendly: but from this time forth I wear it as your Enemy. Sir, the Event Is yet to name the winner. Far you well. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords Till he have crossed the Seuern. Happiness. He goes hence frowning: but it honours us That we have given him cause. 'Tis all the better, Your valiant Britain's have their wishes in it. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our Chariots, and our Horsemen be in readiness: The Powers that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain. 'Tis not sleepy business, But must be looked too speedily, and strongly. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But my gentle Queen, Where is our Daughter? She hath not appeared Before the Roman, nor to us hath tendered The duty of the day. She look us like A thing more made of malice, then of duty, We have noted it. Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance. Royal Sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retired Hath her life been: the Cure whereof, my Lord. 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her. she's a Lady So tender of rebukes, that words are stroke;, And strokes death to her. Where is she Sir? How Can her contempt be answered? Please you Sir, Her Chambers are all locked, and there's no answer That will be given to ' th' loud of noise, we make. My Lord, when last I went to visit her, She prayed me to excuse her keeping close, Whereto constrained by her infirmity, She should that duty leave unpaide to you Which daily she was bound to proffer: this She wished me to make known: but our great Court Made me too blame in memory. Her doors locked? Not seen of late? Grant Heavens, that which I Fear, prove false. Son, I say, follow the King. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old Servant I have not seen these two days. Go, look after: Pisanio, thou that standest so for Posthumus, He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absence Proceed by swallowing that. For he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seized her: Or winged with fervour of her love, she's flown To her desired Posthumus: gone she is, To death, or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British Crown. How now, my Son?
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)
So Sir: I deſire of you A Conduct ouer Land, to Milford-Hauen. Madam, all ioy befall your Grace, and you. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office: The due of Honor, in no point omit: So farewell Noble Lucius. Your hand, my Lord. Receiue it friendly: but from this time forth I weare it as your Enemy. Sir, the Euent Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. Leaue not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords Till he haue croſt the Seuern▪ Happines. He goes hence frowning: but it honours vs That we haue giuen him cauſe. 'Tis all the better, Your valiant Britaines haue their wiſhes in it. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes heere. It fits vs therefore ripely Our Chariots, and our Horſemen be in readineſſe: The Powres that he already hath in Gallia Will ſoone be drawne to head, from whence he moues His warre for Britaine. 'Tis not ſleepy buſineſſe, But muſt be look'd too ſpeedily, and ſtrongly. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made vs forward. But my gentle Queene, Where is our Daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to vs hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looke vs like A thing more made of malice, then of duty, We haue noted it. Call her before vs, for We haue beene too ſlight in ſufferance. Royall Sir, Since the exile of Poſthumus, moſt retyr'd Hath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord. 'Tis time muſt do. Beſeech your Maieſty, Forbeare ſharpe ſpeeches to her. Shee's a Lady So tender of rebukes, that words are ſtroke;, And ſtrokes death to her. Where is ſhe Sir? How Can her contempt be anſwer'd? Pleaſe you Sir, Her Chambers are all lock'd, and there's no anſwer That will be giuen to' th' lowd of noiſe, we make. My Lord, when laſt I went to viſit her, She pray'd me to excuſe her keeping cloſe, Whereto conſtrain'd by her infirmitie, She ſhould that dutie leaue vnpaide to you Which dayly ſhe was bound to proffer: this She wiſh'd me to make knowne: but our great Court Made me too blame in memory. Her doores lock'd? Not ſeene of late? Grant Heauens, that which I Feare, proue falſe. Sonne, I ſay, follow the King. That man of hers, Piſanio, her old Seruant I haue not ſeene theſe two dayes. Go, looke after: Piſanio, thou that ſtand'ſt ſo for Poſthumus, He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his abſence Proceed by ſwallowing that. For he beleeues It is a thing moſt precious. But for her, Where is ſhe gone? Haply diſpaire hath ſeiz'd her: Or wing'd with feruour of her loue, ſhe's flowne To her deſir'd Poſthumus: gone ſhe is, To death, or to diſhonor, and my end Can make good vſe of either. Shee being downe, I haue the placing of the Brittiſh Crowne. How now, my Sonne?