Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1609 [c.1608-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men unassigned nearest T60 Imperial Rome: rulers, favour and politi · 495 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T60: caesar, rome, emperor, empire, honour, lord, lucius, great, palsgrave, kings.
We did, so please your Highness. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful: Mine ears that hear her flattery, nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her: yet (Oh my Daughter) That it was folly in me, thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all. Thou com'st not Caius now for Tribute, that The Britain's have razed out, though with the loss Of many a bold one: whose Kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeased, with slaughter Of you their Captives, which ourself have granted, So think of your estate. Consider Sir, the chance of War, the day Was yours by accident: had it gone with us, We should not when the blood was cool, have threatened Our Prisoners with the Sword. But since the Gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be called ransom, let it come: Sufficeth, A Roman, with a Romans heart can suffer: Augustus lives to think on't: and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat, my Boy (a Britain borne) Let him be ransomed: Never Master had A Page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so Nurse-like: let his virtue join With my request, which I'll make bold your Highness Cannot deny: he hath done no Britain harm, Though he have served a Roman. Save him (Sir) And spare no blood beside. I have surely seen him: His favour is familiar to me: Boy, Thou hast looked thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore, To say, live boy: ne'er thank thy Master, live; And ask of Cymbeline what Boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty, and thy state, I'll give it: Yea, though thou do demand a Prisoner The Noblest ta'en. I humbly thank your Highness. I do not bid thee beg my life, good Lad, And yet I know thou wilt. No, no, alack, There's other work in hand: I see a thing Bitter to me, as death: your life, good Master, Must shuffle for itself. The Boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys, That place them on the truth of Girls, and Boys. Why stands he so perplexed? What wouldst thou Boy? I love thee more, and more: think more and more What's best to ask. knowst him thou look'st on? speak Wilt have him live? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend? He is a Roman, no more kin to me, Than I to your Highness, who being born your vassal Am something nearer. Wherefore ey'st him so? I'll tell you (Sir) in private, if you please To give me hearing. I, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? Fidele Sir. Thou'rt my good youth: my Page I'll be thy Master: walk with me: speak freely.
seed 43: T1 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
We did, ſo pleaſe your Highneſſe. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for ſhe was beautifull: Mine eares that heare her flattery, nor my heart, That thought her like her ſeeming. It had beene vicious To haue miſtruſted her: yet (Oh my Daughter) That it was folly in me, thou mayſt ſay, And proue it in thy feeling. Heauen mend all. Thou comm'ſt not Caius now for Tribute, that The Britaines haue rac'd out, though with the loſſe Of many a bold one: whoſe Kinſmen haue made ſuite That their good ſoules may be appeas'd, with ſlaughter Of you their Captiues, which our ſelfe haue granted, So thinke of your eſtate. Conſider Sir, the chance of Warre, the day Was yours by accident: had it gone with vs, We ſhould not when the blood was cool, haue threatend Our Priſoners with the Sword. But ſince the Gods Will haue it thus, that nothing but our liues May be call'd ranſome, let it come: Sufficeth, A Roman, with a Romans heart can ſuffer: Auguſtus liues to thinke on't: and ſo much For my peculiar care. This one thing onely I will entreate, my Boy (a Britaine borne) Let him be ranſom'd: Neuer Maſter had A Page ſo kinde, ſo duteous, diligent, So tender ouer his occaſions, true, So feate, ſo Nurſe-like: let his vertue ioyne With my requeſt, which Ile make bold your Highneſſe Cannot deny: he hath done no Britaine harme, Though he haue ſeru'd a Roman. Saue him (Sir) And ſpare no blood beſide. I haue ſurely ſeene him: His fauour is familiar to me: Boy, Thou haſt look'd thy ſelfe into my grace, And art mine owne. I know not why, wherefore, To ſay, liue boy: ne're thanke thy Maſter, liue; And aske of Cymbeline what Boone thou wilt, Fitting my bounty, and thy ſtate, Ile giue it: Yea, though thou do demand a Priſoner The Nobleſt tane. I humbly thanke your Highneſſe. I do not bid thee begge my life, good Lad, And ye I know thou wilt. No, no, alacke, There's other worke in hand: I ſee a thing Bitter to me, as death: your life, good Maſter, Muſt ſhuffle for it ſelfe. The Boy diſdaines me, He leaues me, ſcornes me: briefely dye their ioyes, That place them on the truth of Gyrles, and Boyes. Why ſtands he ſo perplext? What would'ſt thou Boy? I loue thee more, and more: thinke more and more What's beſt to aske. Know'ſt him thou look'ſt on? ſpeak Wilt haue him liue? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend? He is a Romane, no more kin to me, Then I to your Highneſſe, who being born your vaſſaile Am ſomething neerer. Wherefore ey'ſt him ſo? Ile tell you (Sir) in priuate, if you pleaſe To giue me hearing. I, with all my heart, And lend my beſt attention. What's thy name? Fidele Sir. Thou'rt my good youth: my Page Ile be thy Maſter: walke with me: ſpeake freely.