Shakespeare, William · published 1598 · first performed or written c.1595 (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 478 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Now the number is even. True true, we are four: will these turtles be gone▪ Hence sirs, away. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. Sweet Lords, sweet Lovers▪ O let us embrace, As true we are as flesh and blood can be, The Sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face: Young blood doth not obey an old decree. We can not cross the cause why we were borne: Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. What, did these rend lines show some love of thine? Did they quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline, That (like a rude and savage man of Ind.) At the first opening of the gorgeous East, Bows not his vassal head, and strooken blind. Kisses the base ground with obedient breast. What peromptorie Eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow, That is not blinded by her majesty? What zeal, what fury, hath inspired thee now? My Love (her Mistress) is a gracious Moon, She (an attending Star) scarce seen a light. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne, O, but for my Love, day would turn to night, Of all complexions the could sovereignty, Do meet as at a fair in her fair cheek, Where several worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants, that want itself doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues, F●e painted Rhetoric, O she needs it not, To things of sale, a cellar's praise belongs: She passes praise, then praise too short doth blot. A withered Hermight fivescore winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye: Beauty doth varnish Age, as if new borne, And gives the Crutch the Cradle's infancy. O 'tis the Sun that maketh all things shine. By heaven, thy Love is black as Ebony. Is Ebony like her? O word divine! A wife of such wood were felicity. O who can give an oath? Where is a book? That I may swear Beauty doth beauty lack, If that she learn not of her eye to look: No face is fair that is not full so black. O paradox, Black is the badge of Hell, The hue of dungions, and the School of night: And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well. devils soonest tempt resembling spirits of light. O if in black my ladies brows be decked, It mourns, that painting usurping hair Should ravish dooters with a false aspect: And therefore is she borne to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days, For native blood is counted painting now: And therefore red that would avoid dispraise, Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. To look like her are Chimnie-sweepers black. And since her time are Colliers counted bright. And Aethiops of their sweet complexion crack. Dark needs no Candles now, for dark is light.
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)
Now the number is euen. True true, we are fower: will theſe turtles be gon▪ Hence ſirs, away. Walke aſide the true folke, and let the traytors ſtay. Sweete Lords, ſweete Louers▪ O let vs imbrace, As true we are as fleſh and blood can be, The Sea will ebb and flow, heauen ſhew his face: Young blood doth not obay an olde decree. We can not croſſe the cauſe why we were borne: Therefore of all handes muſt we be forſworne. What, did theſe rent lines ſhew ſome loue of thine? Did they quoth you? Who ſees the heauenly Roſaline, That (like a rude and ſauadge man of Inde.) At the firſt opning of the gorgious Eaſt, Bowes not his vaſſall head, and ſtrooken blind. Kiſſes the baſe ground with obedient breaſt. What peromptorie Eagle-ſighted eye Dares looke vpon the heauen of her brow, That is not blinded by her maieſtie? What zeale, what furie, hath inſpirde thee now? My Loue (her Miſtres) is a gracious Moone, Shee (an attending Starre) ſcarce ſeene a light. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne, O, but for my Loue, day would turne to night, Of all complexions the culd ſoueraigntie, Do meete as at a faire in her faire cheeke, Where ſeuerall worthies make one dignitie, Where nothing wantes, that want it ſelfe doth ſeeke. Lend me the floriſh of all gentle tongues, Fe paynted Rethoricke, O ſhee needes it not, To thinges of ſale, a ſellers prayſe belonges: She paſſes prayſe, then prayſe too ſhort doth blot. A witherd Hermight fiueſcore winters worne, Might ſhake off fiftie, looking in her eye: Beautie doth varniſh Age, as if new borne, And giues the Crutch the Cradles infancie. O tis the Sunne that maketh all thinges ſhine. By heauen, thy Loue is blacke as Ebonie. Is Ebonie like her? O word deuine! A wife of ſuch wood were felicitie. O who can giue an oth? Where is a booke? That I may ſweare Beautie doth beautie lacke, If that ſhe learne not of her eye to looke: No face is fayre that is not full ſo blacke. O paradox, Blacke is the badge of Hell, The hue of dungions, and the Schoole of night: And beauties creſt becomes the heauens well. Diuels ſooneſt tempt reſembling ſpirites of light. O if in blacke my Ladyes browes be deckt, It mournes, that painting vſurping haire Should rauiſh dooters with a falſe aſpect: And therefore is ſhe borne to make blacke fayre. Her fauour turnes the faſhion of the dayes, For natiue blood is counted paynting now: And therefore redd that would auoyde diſprayſe, Paintes it ſelfe blacke, to imitate her brow. To looke like her are Chimnie-ſweepers blake. And ſince her time are Colliers counted bright. And Aethiops of their ſweete complexion crake. Darke needes no Candles now, for darke is light.