Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1609 [c.1608-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men unassigned nearest T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds · 483 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
He is but one: you, and my Brother search What Companies are near: pray you away, Let me alone with him. Soft, what are you That fly me thus? Some villaine-Mountainers? I have heard of such. What Slave art thou? A thing. More slavish did I ne'er, then answering A Slave without a knock. Thou art a Robber, A Lawbreaker, a Villain: yield thee Thief. To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine? A heart, as big: Thy words I grant are bigger: for I wear not My Dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art: Why I should yield to thee? Thou Villain base, knowst me not by my clothes? No, nor thy Tailor, Rascal: Who is thy Grandfather? He made those clothes, Which (as it seems) make thee. Thou precious Varlet, My Tailor made them not. Hence then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some Fool, I am loath to beat thee. Thou injurious Thief, Hear but my name, and tremble. What's thy name? Cloten, thou Villain. Cloten, thou double Villain be thy name, I cannot tremble at it, were it Toad, or Adder, Spider, 'Twould move me sooner. To thy further fear, Nay, to thy mere Confusion, thou shalt know I am Son to ' th' Queen. I am sorry for it: not seeming So worthy as thy Birth. Art not afeard? Those that I reverence, those I fear: the Wise: At Fools I laugh: not fear them. die the death: When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I'll follow those that even now fled hence: And on the Gates of Luds-Towne set your heads: Yield Rustic Mountaineer. No company's abroad? None in the world: you did mistake him sure. I cannot tell: Long is it since I saw him, But Time hath nothing blurred those lines of Favour Which then he wore: the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking were as his: I am absolute 'Twas very Cloten. In this place we left them; I wish my Brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell. Being scarce made up, I mean to man; he had not apprehension Of roaring terrors: For defect of judgement Is oft the cause of Fear. But see thy Brother. This Cloten was a Fool, an empty purse, There was no money in't: Not Hercules Can have knocked out his Brains, for he had none: Yet I not doing this, the Fool had borne My head, as I do his. What hast thou done? I am perfect what: cut off one Clotens head, Son to the Queen (after his own report) Who called me Traitor, Mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand heeled take us in, Displace our heads, where (thanks the Gods) they grow And set them on Luds-Towne. We are all undone.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T36 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
He is but one: you, and my Brother ſearch What Companies are neere: pray you away, Let me alone with him. Soft, what are you That flye me thus? Some villaine-Mountainers? I haue heard of ſuch. What Slaue art thou? A thing. More ſlauiſh did I ne're, then anſwering A Slaue without a knocke. Thou art a Robber, A Law-breaker, a Villaine: yeeld thee Theefe. To who? to thee? What art thou? Haue not I An arme as bigge as thine? A heart, as bigge: Thy words I grant are bigger: for I weare not My Dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art: Why I ſhould yeeld to thee? Thou Villaine baſe, Know'ſt me not by my Cloathes? No, nor thy Taylor, Raſcall: Who is thy Grandfather? He made thoſe cloathes, Which (as it ſeemes) make thee. Thou precious Varlet, My Taylor made them not. Hence then, and thanke The man that gaue them thee. Thou art ſome Foole, I am loath to beate thee. Thou iniurious Theefe, Heare but my name, and tremble. What's thy name? Cloten, thou Villaine. Cloten, thou double Villaine be thy name, I cannot tremble at it, were it Toad, or Adder, Spider, 'Twould moue me ſooner. To thy further feare, Nay, to thy meere Confuſion, thou ſhalt know I am Sonne to' th' Queene. I am ſorry for 't: not ſeeming So worthy as thy Birth. Art not afeard? Thoſe that I reuerence, thoſe I feare: the Wiſe: At Fooles I laugh: not feare them. Dye the death: When I haue ſlaine thee with my proper hand, Ile follow thoſe that euen now fled hence: And on the Gates of Luds-Towne ſet your heads: Yeeld Ruſticke Mountaineer. No Companie's abroad? None in the world: you did miſtake him ſure. I cannot tell: Long is it ſince I ſaw him, But Time hath nothing blurr'd thoſe lines of Fauour Which then he wore: the ſnatches in his voice, And burſt of ſpeaking were as his: I am abſolute 'Twas very Cloten. In this place we left them; I wiſh my Brother make good time with him, You ſay he is ſo fell. Being ſcarſe made vp, I meane to man; he had not apprehenſion Of roaring terrors: For defect of iudgement Is oft the cauſe of Feare. But ſee thy Brother. This Cloten was a Foole, an empty purſe, There was no money in't: Not Hercules Could haue knock'd out his Braines, for he had none: Yet I not doing this, the Foole had borne My head, as I do his. What haſt thou done? I am perfect what: cut off one Clotens head, Sonne to the Queene (after his owne report) Who call'd me Traitor, Mountaineer, and ſwore With his owne ſingle hand heel'd take vs in, Diſplace our heads, where (thanks the Gods) they grow And ſet them on Luds-Towne. We are all vndone.