Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1596 [1594-1596] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T15 Friars and holy orders in plot · 519 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T15: friar, lord, holy, friars, robin, peggy, lacie, angelo, love, nun.
O I cry you mercy, you are the Singer. I will say for you; it is Music with her silver sound, Because Musicians have no gold for sounding: Then Music with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress. What a pestilent knave is this same? Hang him Iacke, come we'll in here, tarry for the Mourners, and stay dinner. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: My bosoms L. sits lightly in his throne: And all this day an vccustomed spirit, Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt my Lady came and found me dead, (Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think,) And breathed such life with kisses in my lips, That I revived and was an Emperor. Ah me, how sweet is love itself possessed, When but love's shadows are so rich in joy. News from Verona, how now Balthazer? Dost thou not bring me Letters from the Friar? How doth my Lady? Is my Father well? How doth my Lady Iuliet? that I ask again, For nothing can be ill, if she be well. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capulets Monument, And her immortal part with Angels live, I saw her laid low in her kindred's Vault, And presently took Post to tell it you: O pardon me for bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it for my office Sir. Is it even so? Then I deny you stars. Thou knowest my lodging, get me ink and paper, And hire Post-Horses, I will hence to night. I do beseech you sir, have patience: Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure. Tush, thou art deceived, Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no Letters to me from the Friar? No my good Lord. more matter: Get thee gone, And hire those Horses, I'll be with thee strait. Well Iuliet, I will lie with thee to night: Let's see for means: O mischief thou art swift, To enter in the thoughts of desperate men: I do remember an Appothecarie, And here abouts dwells, which late I noted In tattered weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of Simples, meager were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones: And in his needy shop a Tortoyrs hung, An Allegater stuffed, and other skins Of ill shaped fishes, and about his shelves, A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, Bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of Roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, An if a man did need a poison now, Whose sale is persent death in Mantua, Here lives a Caitiff wretch would sell it him. O this same thought did but forerun my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house, Being holy day, the beggar's shop is shut. What ho? Appothecarie? Who calls so lowed?
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)
O I cry you mercy, you are the Singer. I will ſay for you; it is Muſicke with her ſiluer ſound, Becauſe Muſitions haue no gold for ſounding: Then Muſicke with her ſiluer ſound, with ſpeedy helpe doth lend redreſſe. What a peſtilent knaue is this ſame? Hang him Iacke, come weele in here, tarrie for the Mourners, and ſtay dinner. If I may truſt the flattering truth of ſleepe, My dreames preſage ſome ioyfull newes at hand: My boſomes Lſits lightly in his throne: And all thisan day an vccuſtom'd ſpirit, Lifts me aboue the ground with cheerefull thoughts. I dreamt my Lady came and found me dead, (Strange dreame that giues a dead man leaue to thinke,) And breath'd ſuch life with kiſſes in my lips, That I reuiu'd and was an Emperour. Ah me, how ſweet is loue it ſelfe poſſeſt, When but loues ſhadowes are ſo rich in ioy. Newes from Ʋerona, how now Balthazer? Doſt thou not bring me Letters from the Frier? How doth my Lady? Is my Father well? How doth my Lady Iuliet? that I aske againe, For nothing can be ill, if ſhe be well. Then ſhe is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body ſleepes in Capels Monument, And her immortall part with Angels liue, I ſaw her laid low in her kindreds Vault, And preſently tooke Poſte to tell it you: O pardon me for bringing theſe ill newes, Since you did leaue it for my office Sir. Is it euen ſo? Then I denie you Starre. Thou knoweſt my lodging, get me inke and paper, And hire Poſt-Horſes, I will hence to night. I do beſeech you ſir, haue patience: Your lookes are pale and wild, and do import Some miſaduenture. Tuſh, thou art deceiu'd, Leaue me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Haſt thou no Letters to me from the Frier? No my good Lord. Mo matter: Get thee gone, And hyre thoſe Horſes, Ile be with thee ſtraight. Well Iuliet, I will lie with thee to night: Lets ſee for meanes: O miſchiefe thou art ſwift, To enter in the thoughts of deſperate men: I do remember an Appothecarie, And here abouts dwells, which late I noted In tattred weeds, with ouerwhelming browes, Culling of Simples, meager were hi lookes, Sharpe miſerie had worne him to the bones: And in his needie ſhop a Tortoyrs hung, An Allegater ſtuft, and other skins Of ill ſhap'd fiſhes, and about his ſhelues, A beggerly account of emptie boxes, Greene earthen pots, Bladders, and muſtie ſeedes, Remnants of packthred, and old cakes of Roſes Were thinly ſcattered, to make vp a ſhew. Noting this penury, to my ſelfe I ſaid, An if a man did need a poyſon now, Whoſe ſale is perſent death in Mantua, Here liues a Caitiffe wretch would ſell it him. O this ſame thought did but fore-run my need, And this ſame needie man muſt ſell it me. As I remember, this ſhould be the houſe, Being holy day, the beggers ſhop is ſhut. What ho? Appothecarie? Who call's ſo low'd?