Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1596 [1594-1596] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T52 Prodigals, portions and poor kin typicality 0.80 · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T52: brother, father, uncle, cousin, son, poor, bread, old, given, master.
Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, Adding to clouds, more clouds with his deep sighs, But all so soon as the all-cheering Sun, Should in the farthest East begin to draw The shady Curtains from Aurora's bed, Away from light-steales home my heavy Son, And private in his Chamber pens himself, Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out, And makes himself an artificial night: Black and portendous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove. My Noble Uncle do you know the cause? I neither know it, nor can learn of him. Have you importuned him by any means? Both by myself and many others Friends, But he his own affections counsellor, Is to himself (I will not say how true) But to himself so secret and so close, So far from sounding and discovery, As is the bud bit with an envious worm, Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the same. Can we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure, as know. See where he comes, so please you step 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 Cousin. Is the day so young? But new strooke nine. Ay me, sad hours seem long: Was that my Father that went hence so fast? It was: what sadness lengthens Romeo's 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 his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes, see path-ways to his will: Where shall we dine? O 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 created: O heavy lightness, serious vanity, misshapen Chaos of welseeing forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still waking sleep, that is not what it is: This love feel I, that 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 love's transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate to have it pressed With more of thine, this love that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief, to too much of mine own. Love, is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparkling in Lover's eyes, Being vexed, a Sea nourished with loving tears, What is it else? a madness, most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet: Farewell my 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)
Many a morning hath he there beene ſeene, With teares augmenting the freſh mornings deaw, Adding to cloudes, more cloudes with his deepe ſighes, But all ſo ſoone as the all-cheering Sunne, Should in the fartheſt Eaſt begin to draw The ſhadie Curtaines from Auroras bed, Away from light-ſteales home my heauy Sonne, And priuate in his Chamber pennes himſelfe, Shuts vp his windowes, lockes faire day-light out, And makes himſelfe an artificiall night: Blacke and portendous muſt this humour proue, Vnleſſe good counſell may the cauſe remoue. My Noble Vncle doe you know the cauſe? I neither know it, nor can learne of him. Haue you importun'd him by any meanes? Both by my ſelfe and many others Friends, But he his owne affections counſeller, Is to himſelfe (I will not ſay how true) But to himſelfe ſo ſecret and ſo cloſe, So farre from ſounding and diſcouery, As is the bud bit with an enuious worme, Ere he can ſpread his ſweete leaues to the ayre, Or dedicate his beauty to the ſame. Could we but learne from whence his ſorrowes grow, We would as willingly giue cure, as know. See where he comes, ſo pleaſe you ſtep aſide, Ile know his greeuance, or be much denide. I would thou wert ſo happy by thy ſtay, To heare true ſhrift. Come Madam let's away. Good morrow Couſin. Is the day ſo young? But new ſtrooke nine. Aye me, ſad houres ſeeme long: Was that my Father that went henec ſo faſt? It was: what ſadnes lengthens Romeo's houres? Not hauing that, which hauing, makes them ſhort In loue. Out. Of loue. Out of her fauour where I am in loue. Alas that loue ſo gentle in his view, Should be ſo tyrannous and rough in proofe. Alas that loue, whoſe view is muffled ſtill, Should without eyes, ſee path-wayes to his will: Where ſhall we dine? O me: what fray was heere? Yet tell me not, for I haue heard it all: Heere's much to do with hate, but more with loue: Why then, O brawling loue, O louing hate, O any thing, of nothing firſt created: O heauie lightneſſe, ſerious vanity, Miſhapen Chaos of welſeeing formes, Feather of lead, bright ſmoake, cold fire, ſicke health, Still waking ſleepe, that is not what it is: This loue feele I, that feele no loue in this. Doeſt thou not laugh? No Coze, I rather weepe. Good heart, at what? At thy good hearts oppreſsion. Why ſuch is loues tranſgreſsion. Griefes of mine owne lie heauie in my breaſt, Which thou wilt propagate to haue it preaſt With more of thine, this loue that thou haſt ſhowne, Doth adde more griefe, to too much of mine owne. Loue, is a ſmoake made with the fume of ſighes, Being purg'd, a fire ſparkling in Louers eyes, Being vext, a Sea nouriſht with louing teares, What is it elſe? a madneſſe, moſt diſcreet, A choking gall, and a preſeruing ſweet: Farewell my Coze.