Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1595 (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 493 words · other edition — not in the analysis
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, & 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 will show his face: Young blood doth not obey an old decree. We cannot cross the cause why we are 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 peremptory 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 culled 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, Fie 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 Hermit, 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 dungeons, and the School of night: And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well. devils soon tempt resembling spirits of light. O if in black my Lady's brows be decked, It mourns, that painting usurping hair Should ravish doters 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 Chimney-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. Your mistresses dare never come in rain, For fear their colours should be washed away.
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 fowre: will theſe Turtles be gone? Hence ſirs, away. Walk aſide the true folke, & let the traytors ſtay. Sweet Lords, ſweet Louers, O let vs imbrace, As true we are as fleſh and bloud can be, The Sea will ebbe and flow, heauen will ſhew his face: Young bloud doth not obey an old decree. We cannot croſſe the cauſe why we are borne: Therefore of all hands 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 ſauage man of Inde.) At the firſt opening of the gorgeous Eaſt, Bowes not his vaſſall head, and ſtrooken blinde, Kiſſes the baſe ground with obedient breaſt? What peremptory Eagle-ſighted eye Dares looke vpon the heauen of her brow, That is not blinded by her maieſtie? What zeale, what furie, hath inſpir'd 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 cul'd ſoueraignty, Doe meet as at a faire in her faire cheeke, Where ſeuerall Worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants, that want it ſelfe doth ſeeke. Lend me the flouriſh of all gentle tongues, Fie painted Rethoricke, O ſhe needs it not, To things of ſale, a ſellers praiſe belongs: She paſſes prayſe, then prayſe too ſhort doth blot. A withered Hermite, fiueſcore winters worne, Might ſhake off fiftie, looking in her eye: Beauty doth varniſh Age, as if new borne, And giues the Crutch the Cradles infancie. O 'tis the Sunne that maketh all things ſhine. By heauen, thy Loue is blacke as Ebonie. Is Ebonie like her? O word diuine? A wife of ſuch wood were felicitie. O who can giue an oth? Where is a booke? That I may ſweare Beauty doth beauty lacke, If that ſhe learne not of her eye to looke: No face is faire that is not full ſo blacke. O paradoxe, Blacke is the badge of hell, The hue of dungeons, and the Schoole of night: And beauties creſt becomes the heauens well. Diuels ſooneſt tempt reſembling ſpirits of light. O if in blacke my Ladies browes be deckt, It mournes, that painting vſurping haire Should rauiſh doters with a falſe aſpect: And therfore is ſhe borne to make blacke, faire. Her fauour turnes the faſhion of the dayes, For natiue bloud is counted painting now: And therefore red that would auoyd diſpraiſe, Paints it ſelfe blacke, to imitate her brow. To look like her are Chimny-ſweepers blacke. And ſince her time, are Colliers counted bright. And Aethiops of their ſweet complexion crake. Dark needs no Candles now, for dark is light. Your miſtreſſes dare neuer come in raine, For feare their colours ſhould be waſht away.