Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1596 [1594-1596] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T11 Siblings, kin and confidants · 472 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
Who set this ancient quarrel first abroach? Speak Nephew, were you by when it began? Here were the servants of your adversaries, And yours close fight ere I did approach. Ah where is Romeo, saw you him to day? Right glad I am he was not at this fray. Madame, an hour before the worshipped sun Peeped through the golden window of the East, A troubled thought drew me from company: Where underneath the grove Sicamoure, That Westward rooteth from the cities side, So early walking might I see your son. I drew towards him, but he was ware of me, And drew into the thicket of the wood: I noting his affections by mine own, That most are busied when they're most alone, Pursued my honour, not pursuing his. Black and portentous must this honour prove, Unless good counsel do the cause remove. Why tell me Uncle do you know the cause? I neither know it nor can learn of him. See where he is, but stand you both aside, I'll know his grievance, or be much denied. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay To hear true shrift. Come Madam let's away. Good morrow cozen. Is the day so young? But new stroke nine. Ay me, sad hopes seem long. Was that my Father that went hence so fast? It was, what sorrow lengthens Romeos' hours? Not having that, which having makes them short. In love. Out. Of love. Out of her favour where I am in love. Alas that love so gentle in her view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof. Alas that love whose view is muffled still, Should without laws give path-ways to our will: Where shall we dine? God's me, what fray was here? Yet tell me not for I have heard it all, Here's much to do with hate, but more with love. Why then, O brawling love, O loving hate, O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness serious vanity! misshapen Chaos of best seeming things, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still waking sleep, that is not what it is: This love feel I, which feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh? No Cousin I rather weep. Good heart at what? At thy good hearts oppression. Why such is loves transgression, Griefs of mine own lie heavy at my heart, Which thou wouldst propagate to have them priest With more of thine, this grief that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own: Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers eyes: Being vexed, a sea raging with a lovers tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell Cousin.
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)
Who set this auncient quarrel first abroach? Speake Nephew, were you by when it began? Here were the seruants of your aduersaries, And yours close fighting ere I did approch. Ah where is Romeo, saw you him to day? Right glad I am he was not at this fray. Madame, an houre before the worshipt sunne Peept through the golden window of the East, A troubled thought drew me from companie: Where vnderneath the groue Sicamoure, That Westward rooteth from the Citties side, So early walking might I see your sonne. I drew towards him, but he was ware of me, And drew into the thicket of the wood: I noting his affections by mine owne, That most are busied when th'are most alone, Pursued my honor, not pursuing his. Black and portentious must this honor proue, Vnlesse good counsaile doo the cause remooue. Why tell me Vncle do you know the cause? I neyther know it nor can learne of him. See where he is, but stand you both aside, Ile know his grieuance, or be much denied. I would thou wert so happi by thy stay To heare true shrit. Come Madame lets away. Good morrow Cosen. Is the day so young? But new stroke nine. Ay me, sad hopes seeme long. Was that my Father that went hence so fast? It was, what sorrow lengthens Romeos houres? Not hauing that, which hauing makes them short. In loue. Out. Of loue. Out of her fauor where I am in loue. Alas that loue so gentle in her view, Should be so tyrranous and rough in prooe. Alas that loue whose view is muffled still, Should without lawes giue path-waies to our will: Where shall we dine? Gods me, what fray was here? Yet tell me not for I haue heard it all, Heres much to doe with hate, but more with loue. Why then, O brawling loue, O louing hate, O anie thing, of nothing first create! O heauie lightnes serious vanitie! Mihapen Caos of best seeming thinges, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sicke health, Still wakig eepe, that is not what it is: This loue eele I, which feele no loue in this. Doest thou not laugh? No Cose I rather weepe. Good hart at what? At thy good hearts oppression. Why such is loues transgression, Griefes of mine owne lie heauie at my hart, Which thou wouldst propagate to haue them prest With more of thine, this griefe that thou hast showne, Doth ad more griefe to too much of mine owne: Loue is a smoke raisde with the fume of sighes Being purgde, a fire sparkling in louers eyes: Being vext, a sea raging with a louers teares. What is it else? A madnes most discreet, A choking gall, and a preseruing sweet. Farewell Cose.