Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1596 [1594-1596] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T28 Marriage-making: weddings, brides and ma · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T28: married, marriage, wedding, day, bride, father, wife, luce, love, husband.
Go hence, Good-night, and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguised from hence, Sojourn in Mantua, I'll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time, Every good hap to you, that chances here: Give me thy hand, 'tis late, farewell, good-night. But that a joy past joy, calls out on me, It were a grief, so brief to part with thee: Farewell. Things have fall'n out sir so unluckily, That we have had no time to move our Daughter: Look you, she Loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were borne to die. 'Tis very late, she'll not come down to night: I promise you, but for your company, I would have been a bed an hour ago. These times of woe, afford no times to woo: Madam good-night, commend me to your Daughter. I will, and know her mind early to morrow, To night, she is mewed up to her heaviness. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my Child's love: I think she will be ruled In all respects by me: nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed, Acquaint her here, of my Son Paris Love, And bid her, mark you me, on Wendsday next, But soft, what day is this? Monday my Lord. Monday, ha' ha': well Wendsday is too soon, A Thursday let it be: a Thursday tell her, She shall be married to this Noble Earl: Will you be ready? do you like this haste? we'll keep no great ado, a Friend or two, For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much: Therefore we'll have some half a dozen Friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? My Lord, I would that Thursday were to morrow. Well, get you gone, a Thursday, be it then: Go you to Iuliet ere you go to bed, Prepare her wife, against this wedding day. Farewell my Lord, light to my Chamber hoa, Afore me, it is so late, that we may call it early by and by, Good-night. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day: It was the Nightingale, and not the Lark, That pier'st 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: No Nightingale: look Love what envious streaks Do lace the severing Clouds in yonder East: Nights Candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tip to on the misty Mountain's tops, I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Yond light is not daylight, I know it I: It is some Meteor that the Sun exhales, To be to thee this night a Torchbearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet, thou needest not to be gone,
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)
Go hence, Goodnight, and here ſtands all your ſtate: Either be gone before the watch be ſet, Or by the breake of day diſguis'd from hence, Soiourne in Mantua, Ile find out your man, And he ſhall ſignifie from time to time, Euery good hap to you, that chaunces heere: Giue me thy hand, 'tis late, farewell, goodnight. But that a ioy paſt ioy, calls out on me, It were a griefe, ſo briefe to part with thee: Farewell. Things haue falne ou ſir ſo vnluckily, That we haue had no time to moue our Daughter: Looke you, ſhe Lou'd her kinſman Tybalt dearely, And ſo did I. Well, we were borne to die. 'Tis very late, ſhe'l not come downe to night: I promiſe you, but for your company, I would haue bin a bed an houre ago. Theſe times of wo, affoord no times to wooe: Madam goodnight, commend me to your Daughter. I will, and know her mind early to morrow, To night, ſhe is mewed vp to her heauineſſe. Sir Paris, I will make a deſperate tender Of my Childes loue: I thinke ſhe will be rul'd In all reſpects by me: nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed, Acquaint her here, of my Sonne Paris Loue, And bid her, marke you me, on Wendſday next, But ſoft, what day is this? Monday my Lord. Monday, ha ha: well Wendſday is too ſoone, A Thurſday let it be: a Thurſday tell her, She ſhall be married to this Noble Earle: Will you be ready? do you like this haſt? Weele keepe no great adoe, a Friend or two, For harke you, Tybalt being ſlaine ſo late, It may be thought we held him careleſly, Being our kinſman, if we reuell much: Therefore weele haue ſome halfe a dozen Friends, And there an end. But what ſay you to Thurſday? My Lord, I would that Thurſday were to morrow. Well, get you gone, a Thurſday, be it then: Go you to Iuliet ere you go to bed, Prepare her wife, againſt this wedding day. Farewell my Lord, light to my Chamber hoa, Afore me, it is ſo late, that we may call ir early by and by, Goodnight. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet neere day: It was the Nightingale, and not the Larke, That pier'ſt the fearefull hollow of thine eare, Nightly ſhe ſings on yond Pomgranet tree, Beleeue me Loue, it was the Nightingale. It was the Larke the Herauld of the Morne: No Nightingale: looke Loue what enuious ſtreakes Do lace the ſeuering Cloudes in yonder Eaſt: Nights Candles are burnt out, and Iocond day Stands tip to on the miſtie Mountaines tops, I muſt be gone and liue, or ſtay and die. Yond light is not daylight, I know it I: It is ſome Meteor that the Sun exhales, To be to thee this night a Torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore ſtay yet, thou need'ſt not to be gone,