Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1609 [c.1608-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men T2 Roman politics: senate, consuls and civi typicality 0.67 · 485 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
The strides the Victors made: and now our Cowards Like Fragments in hard Voyages became The life o' th' need: having found the back door open Of the unguarded hearts: heavens, how they wound, Some slain before some dying; some their Friends O'erborne i' th' former wave, ten chased by one, Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty: Those that would dye, or ere resist, are grown The mortal bugs o' th' Field. This was strange chance: A narrow Lane, an old man, and two Boys. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear, Then to work any. Will you Rhyme upon it, And vent it for a Mock'rie? here is one: Two Boys, an Oldman (twice a Boy) a Lane, Preserved the Britain's, was the Romans bane. Nay, be not angry Sir. Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his Foe, I'll be his Friend: For if he'll do, as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into Rhyme. Farewell, you're angry. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh Noble misery To be i' th' Field, and ask what news of me: To day, how many would have given their Honours To have saved their Carcases? took heel to do't, And yet died too. I, in mine own woe charmed Can not find death, where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he strooke. Being an ugly Monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds, Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i' th' War. Well I will find him: For being now a Favourer to the Britain, No more a Britain, I have resumed again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest Hind, that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is here made by ' th' Roman; great the Answer be Britain's must take. For me; my ransom's death, On either side I come to spend my breath; Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Great Iupiter be praised, Lucius is taken, 'Tis thought the old man, and his sons, were Angels. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th' Affront with them. So 'tis reported: But none of 'em can be found. Stand, who's there? A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here, if Seconds Had answered him. Lay hands on him: a Dog, A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What Crows have pecked them here: he brags his service As if he were of note: bring him to ' th' King. You shall not now be stolen, You have locks upon you: So graze, as you find Pasture. I, or a stomach.
seed 43: T1 · seed 44: T2 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The ſtrides the Victors made: and now our Cowards Like Fragments in hard Voyages became The life o' th' need: hauing found the backe doore open Of the vnguarded hearts: heauens, how they wound, Some ſlaine before ſome dying; ſome their Friends Ore-borne i' th' former waue, ten chac'd by one, Are now each one the ſlaughter-man of twenty: Thoſe that would dye, or ere reſiſt, are growne The mortall bugs o' th' Field. This was ſtrange chance: A narrow Lane, an old man, and two Boyes. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made Rather to wonder at the things you heare, Then to worke any. Will you Rime vpon 't, And vent it for a Mock'rie? Heere is one: "Two Boyes, an Oldman (twice a Boy) a Lane, "Preſeru'd the Britaines, was the Romanes bane. Nay, be not angry Sir. Lacke, to what end? Who dares not ſtand his Foe, Ile be his Friend: For if hee'l do, as he is made to doo, I know hee'l quickly flye my friendſhip too. You haue put me into Rime. Farewell, you're angry. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh Noble miſery To be i' th' Field, and aske what newes of me: To day, how many would haue giuen their Honours To haue ſau'd their Carkaſſes? Tooke heele to doo't, And yet dyed too. I, in mine owne woe charm'd Could not finde death, where I did heare him groane, Nor feele him where he ſtrooke. Being an vgly Monſter, 'Tis ſtrange he hides him in freſh Cups, ſoft Beds, Sweet words; or hath moe miniſters then we That draw his kniues i' th' War. Well I will finde him: For being now a Fauourer to the Britaine, No more a Britaine, I haue reſum'd againe The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yeeld me to the verieſt Hinde, that ſhall Once touch my ſhoulder. Great the ſlaughter is Heere made by' th' Romane; great the Anſwer be Britaines muſt take. For me; my Ranſome's death, On eyther ſide I come to ſpend my breath; Which neyther heere Ile keepe, nor beare agen, But end it by ſome meanes for Imogen. Great Iupiter be prais'd, Lucius is taken, 'Tis thought the old man, and his ſonnes, were Angels. There was a fourth man, in a ſilly habit, That gaue th' Affront with them. So 'tis reported: But none of 'em can be found. Stand, who's there? A Roman, Who had not now beene drooping heere, if Seconds Had anſwer'd him. Lay hands on him: a Dogge, A legge of Rome ſhall not returne to tell What Crows haue peckt them here: he brags his ſeruice As if he were of note: bring him to' th' King. You ſhall not now be ſtolne, You haue lockes vpon you: So graze, as you finde Paſture. I, or a ſtomacke.