Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1609 [c.1608-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.76 · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Most welcome bondage; for thou art a way (I think) to liberty: yet am I better Than one that's sick o' th' Gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity, then be cured By ' th' sure Physician, Death; who is the key T'vnbarre these Locks. My Conscience, thou art fettered More than my shanks, & wrists: you good Gods give me The penitent Instrument to pick that Bolt, Then free for ever. Is't enough I am sorry? So Children temporal Fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in Gyves, Desired, more than constrained, to satisfy If of my Freedom 'tis the main part, take No stricter render of me, than my All. I know you are more clement than vild men, Who of their broken Debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire. For Imogens dear life, take mine, and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coined it, Between man, and man, they weigh not every stamp: Though light, take Pieces for the figures sake, (You rather) mine being yours: and so great Powers, If you will take this Audit, take this life, And cancel these cold Bonds. Oh Imogen, I'll speak to thee in silence. No more thou Thunder-Master show thy spite on Mortal Flies: With Mars fall out with Iuno chide, that thy Adulteries Rates, and Revenges. Hath my poor Boy done ought but well, whose face I never saw: I died whilst in the Womb he stayed, attending Natures Law. Whose Father then (as men report, thou Orphans Father art) Thou shouldst have been, and sheelded him, from this earth-vexing smart. Lucina lent not me her aid, but took me in my Throws, That from me was Posthumus ripped, came crying 'mong'st his Foes. A thing of pity. Great Nature like his Ancestry, moulded the stuff so fair: That head served the praise o' th' World, as great Sicilius heir. When once he was mature for man, in Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel? Or fruitful object be? In eye of Imogen, that best could deem his dignity. With Marriage wherefore was he mocked to be exiled, and thrown From Leonatis Seat, and cast from her, his dearest one: Sweet Imogen? Why did you suffer Iachimo, slight thing of Italy, To taint his Nobler hart & brain, with needless jealousy, And to become the geeke and scorn o' th' others villainy? For this, from stiller Seats we came, our Parents, and us twain, That striking in our Country's cause, fell bravely, and were slain, Our Fealty, & Tenantius right, with Honour to maintain. Like hardiment Posthumus hath to Cymbeline performed: Then Iupiter, thou King of Gods, why hast thou thus adiourned The Graces for his Merits due, being all to dolours turned? Thy Crystal window open; look, look out, no longer exercise Upon a valiant Race, thy harsh, and potent injuries:
nodes 2670–2725 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 44 of 54 in this edition
Length
506 words · 717 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.764 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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)
Moſt welcome bondage; for thou art a way (I thinke) to liberty: yet am I better Then one that's ſicke o' th' Gowt, ſince he had rather Groane ſo in perpetuity, then be cur'd By 'th 'ſure Phyſitian, Death; who is the key T'vnbarre theſe Lockes. My Conſcience, thou art fetter'd More then my ſhanks, & wriſts: you good Gods giue me The penitent Inſtrument to picke that Bolt, Then free for euer. Is't enough I am ſorry? So Children temporall Fathers do appeaſe; Gods are more full of mercy. Muſt I repent, I cannot do it better then in Gyues, Deſir'd, more then conſtrain'd, to ſatisfie If of my Freedome 'tis the maine part, take No ſtricter render of me, then my All. I know you are more clement then vilde men, Who of their broken Debtors take a third, A ſixt, a tenth, letting them thriue againe On their abatement; that's not my deſire. For Imogens deere life, take mine, and though 'Tis not ſo deere, yet 'tis a life; you coyn'd it, 'Tweene man, and man, they waigh not euery ſtampe: Though light, take Peeces for the figures ſake, (You rather) mine being yours: and ſo great Powres, If you will take this Audit, take this life, And cancell theſe cold Bonds. Oh Imogen, Ile ſpeake to thee in ſilence. No more thou Thunder-Maſter ſhew thy ſpight▪ on Mortall Flies: With Mars fall out with Iuno chide, that thy Adulteries Rates, and Reuenges. Hath my poore Boy done ought but well, whoſe face I neuer ſaw: I dy'de whil'ſt in the Wombe he ſtaide, attending Natures Law. Whoſe Father then (as men report, thou Orphanes Father art) Thou ſhould'ſt haue bin, and ſheelded him, from this earth-vexing ſmart. Lucina lent not me her ayde, but tooke me in my Throwes, That from me was Poſthumus ript, came crying 'mong'ſt his Foes. A thing of pitty. Great Nature like his Anceſtrie, moulded the ſtuffe ſo faire: That hed ſeru'd the praiſe o' th' World, as great Sicilius heyre. When once he was mature for man, in Britaine where was hee That could ſtand vp his paralell? Or fruitfull obiect bee? In eye of Imogen, that bſt could deeme his dignitie. With Marriage wherefore was he mockt to be exil'd, and throwne From Leonati Seate, and caſt from her, his deereſt one: Sweete Imogen? Why did you ſuffer Iachimo, ſlight thing of Italy, To taint his Nobler hart & braine, with needleſſe ielouſy, And to become the geeke and ſcorne o' th' others vilany? For this, from ſtiller Seats we came, our Parents, and vs twaine, That ſtriking in our Countries cauſe, fell brauely, and were ſlaine, Our Fealty, & Tenantius right, with Honor to maintaine. Like hardiment Poſthumus hath to Cymbeline perform'd: Then Iupiter, yu King of Gods, why haſt yu thus adiourn'd The Graces for his Merits due, being all to dolors turn'd? Thy Chriſtall window ope; looke, looke out, no longer exerciſe Vpon a valiant Race, thy harſh, and potent iniuries: