Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1596 [1594-1596] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 501 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
My Lord I wish that Thursday were to morrow. Wife go you to your daughter, ere you go to bed. Acquaint her with the County Paris love, Far well my Lord till Thursday next. Wife get you to your daughter. Light to my Chamber. Afore me it is so very very late, That we may call it early by and by. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day▪ It was the Nightingale and not the Lark That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear: Nightly she sings on yond Pomegranate tree, Believe me love, it was the Nightingale. It was the Lark, the Herald of the Morn, And not the Nightingale. See Love what envious strikes Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day Stands tiptoes on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Yond light is not day light, I know it I: It is some Meteor that the Sun exhales, To be this night to thee a Torchbearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Then stay a while, thou shalt not go soon. Let me stay here, let me be ta'en, and die: If thou wilt have it so, I am content. I'll say yond grey is not the Morning's Eye, It is the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow. I'll say it is the Nightingale that beats The vaulty heaven so high above our heads, And not the Lark the Messenger of Morn. Come death and welcome, Iuliet wills it so. What says my Love? let's talk, 'tis not yet day. It is, it is, be gone, fly hence away. It is the Lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh Discords and unpleasing Sharpes. Some say, the Lark makes sweet Division: This doth not so: for this divideth us. Some say the Lark and loathed Toad change eyes, I would that now they had changed voices too: Since arm from arm her voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with Huntsup to the day. So now be gone, more light and light it grows. More light and light, more dark and dark our woes. Farewell my Love, one kiss and I'll descend. Art thou gone so, my Lord, my Love, my Friend? I must hear from thee every day in the hour: For in an hour there are many minutes, Minutes are days, so will I number them: Oh, by this count I shall be much in years, Ere I see thee again. Farewell, I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings love to thee. Oh, thinkest thou we shall ever meet again. No doubt, no doubt, and all this woe shall serve For sweet discourses in the time to come. Oh God, I have an ill divining soul. Me thinks I see thee now thou art below Like one dead in the bottom of a Tomb: Either mine eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.
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)
My Lorde I wishe that Thursday were to morrow. Wife goe you to your daughter, ere you goe to bed. Acquaint her with the County Paris loue, Fare well my Lord till Thursday next. Wife gette you to your daughter. Light to my Chamber. Afore me it is so very very late, That we may call it earely by and by. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet nere day▪ It was the Nightingale and not the Larke That pierst the fearfull hollow of thine eare: Nightly she sings on yon Pomegranate tree, Beleeue me loue, it was the Nightingale. It was the Larke, the Herald of the Morne, And not the Nightingale. See Loue what enuious strakes Doo lace the seuering clowdes in yonder East. Nights candles are burnt out, and iocond Day Stands tiptoes on the mystie mountaine tops. I must be gone and liue, or stay and dye. Yon light is not day light, I know it I: It is some Meteor that the Sunne exhales, To be this night to thee a Torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Then stay a while, thou shalt not goe soone. Let me stay here, let me be tane, and dye: If thou wilt haue it so, I am content. Ile say yon gray is not the Mornings Eye, It is the pale reflex of Cynthias brow. Ile say it is the Nightingale that beates The vaultie heauen so high aboue our heads, And not the Larke the Messenger of Morne. Come death and welcome, Iuliet wils it so. What sayes my Loue? lets talke, tis not yet day. It is, it is, be gone, flye hence away. It is the Larke that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh Discords and vnpleasing Sharpes. Some say, the Larke makes sweete Diuision: This doth not so: for this diuideth vs. Some say the Larke and loathed Toad change eyes, I would that now they had changd voyces too: Since arme from arme her voyce doth vs affray, Hunting thee hence with Huntsvp to the day. So now be gone, more light and light it growes. More light and light, more darke and darke our woes. Farewell my Loue, one kisse and Ile descend. Art thou gone so, my Lord, my Loue, my Frend? I must heare from thee euerie day in the hower: For in an hower there are manie minutes, Minutes are dayes, so will I number them: Oh, by this count I shall be much in yeares, Ere I see thee againe. Farewell, I will omit no opportunitie That may conueigh my greetings loue to thee. Oh, thinkst thou we shall euer meete againe. No doubt, no doubt, and all this woe shall serue For sweete discourses in the time to come. Oh God, I haue an ill diuining soule. Me thinkes I see thee now thou art below Like one dead in the bottome of a Tombe: Either mine ey-sight failes, or thou lookst pale.