Shakespeare, William / Fletcher, John · published 1634 · first performed or written 1613 [1613-1614] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T28 Marriage-making: weddings, brides and ma · 478 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T28: married, marriage, wedding, day, bride, father, wife, luce, love, husband.
Pray go on Sir? She sung much, but no sense; only I heard her Repeat this often. Palamon is gone, Is gone toth' wood to gather Mulberries, I'll find him out to morrow. Pretty soul. His shackles will betray him, he'll be taken, And what shall I do then? I'll bring a bevy, A hundred black eyed Maids, that love as I do With Chaplets on their heads of Daffodils, With cherry-lips, and cheeks of Damask Rofes, And all we'll dance an Antique fore the Duke, And beg his pardon; Then she talked of you Sir; That you must lose your head to morrow morning, And she must gather flowers to bury you, And see the house made handsome, than she sung Nothing but Willow, willow, willow, and between Ever was, Palamon, fair Palamon, And Palamon, was a tall young man. The place Was knee deep where she sat; her careless Tresses, A wreak of bulrush rounded; about her stuck Thousand fresh water flowers of several colours. That me thought she appeared like the fair Nymph That feeds the lake with waters, or as Iris Newly dropped down from heaven; Rings she made Of rushes that grew by, and to 'em spoke The prettiest posies: Thus our true love's tide, This you may lose, not me, and many a one: And then she wept, and sung again, and sighed, And with the same breath smiled, and kissed her hand. Alas what pity it is? I made in to her. She saw me, and straight sought the flood, I saved her, And set her safe to land: when presently She slipped away, and to the city made, With such a cry, and swiftness, that believe me She left me far behind her; three, or four, I saw from far off cross her one of'em I knew to be your brother, where she stayed, And fell, scarce to be got away: I left them with her. And hither came to tell you: Here they are. May you never more enjoy the light, &c. Is not this a fine Song? O a very fine one. I can sing twenty more. I think you can, Yes truly can I, I can sing the Broom, And Bony Robin. Are not you a tailor? Yes, where's my wedding Gown? I'll bring it to morrow. Do, very rarely, I must be abroad else To call the Maids, and pay the Minstrels For I must lose my Maidenhead by cocklight 'twill never thrive else. You must even take it patiently. 'tis true, Good'ev'n, good men, pray did you ever hear Of one young Palamon? Yes wench we know him. Is't not a fine young Gentleman? 'tis, Love. By no mean cross her, she is then distempered For worse than now she shows. Yes, he's a fine man. O, is he so? you have a Sister. Yes.
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)
Pray goe on Sir? She sung much, but no sence; only I heard her Repeat this often. Palamon is gone, Is gone to'th wood to gather Mulberies, Ile finde him out to morrow. Pretty soule. His shackles will betray him, hee'l be taken, And what shall I doe then? Ile bring a eavy, A hundred blacke eyd Maides, that love as I doe With Chaplets on their heads of Daffadillies, With cherry-lips, and cheekes of Damaske Rofes, And all wee'l daunce an Antique fore the Duke, And beg his pardon; Then she talk'd of you Sir; That you must loose your head to morrow morning, And she must gather flowers to bury you, And see the house made handsome, then she sung Nothing but Willow, willow, willow, and betweene Ever was, Palamon, faire Palamon, And Palamon, was a tall yong man. The Was knee deepe where she sat; her careles Tresses, A wreake of bull-rush rounded; about her stucke Thousand fresh water flowers of severall cullors. That me thought she appeard like the faire Nimph That feedes the lake with waters, or as Iris Newly dropt downe from heaven; Rings she made Of rushes that grew by, and to 'em spoke The prettiest posies: Thus our truelove's tide, This you may loose, not me, and many a one: And then she wept, and sng againe, and sigh'd, And with the same breath smil'd, and ki her hand. Alas what pitty it is? I made in to her. She saw me, and sraight sought the stood, I sav'd her, And set her safe to land: when presently She slipt away, and to the Gity made, With such a ry, and , that me Shee left me farre behinde her; , , I saw from farre off crosse her I knew to be your brother, where staid, And fell, scarce to be got away: I left them with her. And hether came to tell you: Here they are. May you never more the light, &c. Is not this a fine Song? O a very fine one. I can ing twenty more. I thinke you can, Yes truely can I, I cn sing the Broome, And Bony Robin. Are not you a tailour? Yes, Wher's my wedding Gowne? Ile bring it to morrow. Doe, very rarely, I must be abroad else To call the Maides, and pay the Minstrels For I must loose my Maydenhead by cocklight Twill never thive else. You must ev'n take it patiently. Tis true, Good'ev'n, good men, pray did you ever heare Of one yong Palamon? Yes wench we know him. Is't not a fine yong Gentleman? Tis, Love. By no meane crosse her, she is then distemperd For worse then now she showes. Yes, he's a fine man. O, is he so? you have a Sister. Yes.