Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1597 [c.1596-1597] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T48 Addressing a lady: love, desire and inti · 494 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T48: lady, love, heart, fair, eyes, la, lord, tears, fie, face.
She is desperate here: A peevish self-willed Harlotry, One that no persuasion can do good upon. I understand thy Looks: that pretty Welsh Which thou powr'st down from these swelling Heavens, I am too perfect in: and but for shame, In such a parley should I answer thee. I understand thy Kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation: But I will never be a Truant, Love, Till I have learned thy Language: for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as Ditties highly penned, Sung by a fair Queen in a Summer's Bower, With ravishing Division to her Lute. Nay, if thou melt, then will she run mad. O, I am Ignorance itself in this. She bids you, On the wanton Rushes lay you down, And rest your gentle Head upon her Lap, And she will sing the Song that pleaseth you, And on your Eyelids Crown the God of Sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness; Making such difference betwixt Wake and Sleep, As is the difference betwixt Day and Night, The hour before the Heavenly Harneised team Gins his Golden Progress in the East. With all my heart I'll sit, and hear her sing: By that time will our Book, I think, be drawn. Do so: And those Musicians that shall play to you, Hang in the Air a thousand Leagues from thence; And strait they shall be here: sit, and attend. Come Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: Come, quick, quick, that I may lay my Head in thy Lap. Go, ye giddy-Goose. Now I perceive the Devil understands Welsh, And 'tis no marvel he is so humorous: Byrlady he's a good Musician. Then would you be nothing but Musical, For you are altogether governed by humours: Lie still ye Thief, and hear the Lady sing in Welsh. I had rather hear (Lady) my Brach howl in Irish. Wouldst have thy Head broken? No. Then be still. Neither, 'tis a Woman's fault. Now God help thee. To the Welsh Ladies Bed. What's that? Peace, she sings. Come, I'll have your Song too. Not mine, in good sooth. Not yours, in good sooth? You swear like a Comfit-maker's Wife: Not you, in good sooth; and, as true as I live; And, as God shall mend me; and, as sure as day: And givest such Sarsenet surety for thy Oaths, As if thou never walkest further than Finsbury. Swear me, Kate, like a Lady, as thou art, A good mouth-filling Oath: and leave in sooth, And such protest of Pepper Gingerbread, To Veluet-Guards, and Sunday-Citizens. Come, sing. I will not sing. 'Tis the next way to turn Tailor, or be redbreast teacher: and the Indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours: and so come in, when ye will. Come, come, Lord Mortimer, you are as slow, As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. By this our Book is drawn: we'll but seal, And then to Horse immediately.
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)
Shee is deſperate heere: A peeuiſh ſelfe-will'd Harlotry, One that no perſwaſion can doe good vpon. I vnderſtand thy Lookes: that pretty Welſh Which thou powr'ſt down from theſe ſwelling Heauens, I am too perfect in: and but for ſhame, In ſuch a parley ſhould I anſwere thee. I vnderſtand thy Kiſſes, and thou mine, And that's a feeling diſputation: But I will neuer be a Truant, Loue, Till I haue learn'd thy Language: for thy tongue Makes Welſh as ſweet as Ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a faire Queene in a Summers Bowre, With rauiſhing Diuiſion to her Lute. Nay, if thou melt, then will ſhe runne madde. O, I am Ignorance it ſelfe in this. She bids you, On the wanton Ruſhes lay you downe, And reſt your gentle Head vpon her Lappe, And ſhe will ſing the Song that pleaſeth you, And on your Eye-lids Crowne the God of Sleepe, Charming your blood with pleaſing heauineſſe; Making ſuch difference betwixt Wake and Sleepe, As is the difference betwixt Day and Night, The houre before the Heauenly Harneis'd Teeme Begins his Golden Progreſſe in the Eaſt. With all my heart Ile ſit, and heare her ſing: By that time will our Booke, I thinke, be drawne. Doe ſo: And thoſe Muſitians that ſhall play to you, Hang in the Ayre a thouſand Leagues from thence; And ſtraight they ſhall be here: ſit, and attend. Come Kate, thou art perfect in lying downe: Come, quicke, quicke, that I may lay my Head in thy Lappe. Goe, ye giddy-Gooſe. Now I perceiue the Deuill vnderſtands Welſh, And 'tis no maruell he is ſo humorous: Byrlady hee's a good Muſitian. Then would you be nothing but Muſicall, For you are altogether gouerned by humors: Lye ſtill ye Theefe, and heare the Lady ſing in Welſh. I had rather heare (Lady) my Brach howle in Iriſh. Would'ſt haue thy Head broken? No. Then be ſtill. Neyther, 'tis a Womans fault. Now God helpe thee. To the Welſh Ladies Bed. What's that? Peace, ſhee ſings. Come, Ile haue your Song too. Not mine, in good ſooth. Not yours, in good ſooth? You ſweare like a Comfit-makers Wife: Not you, in good ſooth; and, as true as I liue; And, as God ſhall mend me; and, as ſure as day: And giueſt ſuch Sarcenet ſuretie for thy Oathes, As if thou neuer walk'ſt further then Finsbury. Sweare me, Kate, like a Lady, as thou art, A good mouth-filling Oath: and leaue in ſooth, And ſuch proteſt of Pepper Ginger-bread, To Veluet-Guards, and Sunday-Citizens. Come, ſing. I will not ſing. 'Tis the next way to turne Taylor, or be Redbreſt teacher: and the Indentures be drawne, Ile away within theſe two howres: and ſo come in, when yee will. Come, come, Lord Mortimer, you are as ſlow, As hot Lord Percy is on fire to goe. By this our Booke is drawne: wee'le but ſeale, And then to Horſe immediately.