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 · 540 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
A time me thinks too short, To make a world-without-end bargain in: No no my Lord, your Grace is perjured much, Full of dear guiltiness, and therefore this, If for my Love (as there is no such cause) You will do aught, this shall you do for me: Your oath I will not trust, but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Remote from all the pleasures of the world: There stay until the twelve Celestial Signs Have brought about the annual reckoning. If this Austere insociable life, Change not your offer made in heat of blood. If Crownes and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds, Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your Love: But that it bear this trial, and last Love, Then at the expiration of the year, Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts: And by this Virgin palm now kissing thine, I wilbe thine: and till that instance shut My woeful self up in a mourning house, Raining the tears of lamentation, For the remembrance of my Father's death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither intiled in the others heart. If this, or more than this, I would deny, To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, The sudden hand of death close up mine eye. Hence herit then my heart, is in thy breast. And what to me my Love? and what to me? You must be purged to, your sins are racked. You are attaint with faults and perjury: Therefore if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you spend and never rest, But seek the weighed beds of people sick. But what to me my Love? but what to me? A wife? a beard, fair health, and honesty, With three fold love I wish you all these three. O shall I say, I thank you gentle Wife? Not so my Lord, a twelvemonth and a day, I'll mark no words that smothfast wooers say, Come when the King doth to my Lady come: Then if I have much love, I'll give you some. I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. What says Maria? At the twelvemonth's end, I'll change my black Gown for a faithful friend. I'll stay with patience, but the time is long. The liker you, few taller are so young. Studies my Lady? Mistress look on me, Behold the window of my heart, mine eye: What humble suit attends thy answer there, Impose some service on me for thy love. Oft have I heard of you my Lord Berowne, Before I saw you: and the worlds large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks, Full of comparisons and wounding flouts: Which you on all estetes will execute, That lie within the mercy of your wit To weed this wormwood from your fructfull brain, And therewithal to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be won: You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day, Visit the speechless sick, and still converse, With groaning wretches: and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit, To enforce the pained impotent to smile.
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)
A time me thinkes too ſhort, To make a world-without-end bargaine in: No no my Lord, your Grace is periurde much, Full of deare guiltines, and therefore this, If for my Loue (as there is no ſuch cauſe) You will do ought, this ſhall you do for me: Your oth I will not truſt, but goe with ſpeede To ſome forlorne and naked Hermytage, Remote from all the pleaſurs of the world: There ſtay vntill the twelue Celeſtiall Signes Haue brought about the annuall reckoning. If his Auſtere inſociable life, Change not your offer made in heate of blood. If roes and faſtes, hard lodging, and thin weedes, Nip not the gaudie bloſſomes of your Loue: But that it beare this tryall, and laſt Loue, Then at the expiration of the yeere, Come challenge me, challenge me by theſe deſertes: And by his Virgin palme now kisſing thine, I wibe thine: and till that inſtance ſhutt My wofull ſelfe vp in a mourning houſe, Rayning the teares of lamentation, For the remembraunce of my Fathers death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither intiled in the others hart. If this, or more then this, I would denie, To flatter vp theſe powers of mine with reſt, The ſdine hand of death cloſe vp mine eye. Hence herrite then my hart, is in thy breſt. And what to me my Loue? and what to me? You muſt be purged to, your ſinnes are rackt. You are attaint with faultes and periurie: Therefore if you my fauour meane to get, A tweluemonth ſhall you ſpende and neuer reſt, But ſeeke the weery beddes of people ſicke. But what to me my Loue? but what to me? A wife? a beard, faire health, and honeſtie, With three folde loue I wiſh you all theſe three. O ſhall I ſay, I thanke you gentle Wife? Not ſo my Lord, a tweluemonth and a day, Ile marke no wordes that ſmothfaſt wooers ſay, Come when the King doth to my Lady come: Then if I haue much loue, Ile giue you ſome. Ile ſerue thee true and faythfully till then. Yet ſweare not, leaſt ye be forſworne agen. What ſaies Maria? At the tweluemonths ende, Ile change my blacke Gowne for a faithfull frend. Ile ſtay with patience, but the time is long. The liker you, few taller are ſo young. Studdies my Ladie? Miſtres looke on me, Beholde the window of my hart, mine eye: What humble ſuite attendes thy anſwere there, Impoſe ſome ſeruice on me for thy Loue. Oft haue I heard of you my Lord Berowne, Before I ſaw you: and the worldes large tongue Proclaymes you for a man repleat with mockes, Full of compariſons and wounding floutes: Which you on all eſtetes will execute, That lie within the mercie of your wi To weede this wormewood from your fructfull braine, And therewithall to winne me, yf you pleaſe, Without the which I am not to be won: You ſhall this tweluemonth terme from day to day, Viſite the ſpeachleſſe ſicke, and ſtill conuerſe, With groning wretches: and your taſke ſhall be, With all the fierce endeuour of your wit, To enforce the pained impotent to ſmile.