Shakespeare, William · published 1600 · first performed or written 1596 [1594-1596] (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.86 · 489 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Stay; though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. I charge thee hence, and do not haunt me thus O, wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so. Stay, on thy peril: I alone will go. O, I am out of breath, in this fond chase, The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies: For she hath blessed, and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears, If so, my eyes are oftener washed than hers. No, no: I am as ugly as a Bear: For beasts that meet me, run away, for fear. Therefore, no marvel, though Demetrius Do, as a monster, fly my presence, thus. What wicked and dissembling glass, of mine, Made me compare with Hermias sphery eyen! But, who is here? Lysander, on the ground? Dead, or a sleep? I see no blood, no wound, Lysander, if you live, good sir awake. And run through fire, I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena, nature shows art, That through thy bosom, makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius? Oh how fit a word Is that vile name, to perish on my sword! Do not say so, Lysander, say not so. What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content. Content with Hermia? No: I do repent The tedious minutes, I with her have spent. Not Hermia, but Helena I love. Who will not change a Raven for a dove? The will of man is by his reason swayed: And reason says you are the worthier maid. Things growing are not ripe, until their season: So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason. And touching now, the point of human skill, Reason becomes the Marshal to my will, And leads me to your eyes; where I o'erlook loves stories, written in loves richest book. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery borne? When, at your hands, did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, be't not enough, young man, That I did never, no nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius eye, But you must flout my insufficiency? Good troth you do me wrong (good sooth you do) In such disdainful manner, me to woo. But, far you well: perforce, I must confess, I thought you Lord of more true gentleness. O, that a Lady, of one man refused, Should, of another, therefore be abused! She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there, And never mayst thou come Lysander near. For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing, to the stomach brings: Or, as the heresies, that men do leave, Are hated most of those they did deceive: So thou, my surfeit, and my heresy, Of all be hated; but the most, of me: And all my powers address your love and might, To honour Helen, and to be her knight.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Stay; though thou kill mee, sweete Demetrius. I charge thee hence, and doe not haunt mee thus O, wilt thou darkling leaue me? doe not so. Stay, on thy perill: I alone will goe. O, I am out of breath, in this fond chase, The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. Happie is Hermia, wheresoere she lies: For she hath blessed, and attractiue eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt teares, If so, my eyes are oftner washt then hers. No, no: I am as vgly as a Beare: For beastes that meete mee, runne away, for feare. Therefore, no maruaile, though Demetrius Doe, as a monster, fly my presence, thus. What wicked and dissembling glasse, of mine, Made me compare with Hermias sphery eyen! But, who is here? Lysander, on the ground? Dead, or a sleepe? I see no blood, no wound, Lysander, if you liue, good sir awake. And runne through fire, I will for thy sweete sake. Transparent Helena, nature shewes arte, That through thy bosome, makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius? Oh how fit a word Is that vile name, to perish on my sworde! Do not say so, Lysander, say not so. What though he loue your Hermia? Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loues you: then be content. Content with Hermia? No: I doe repent The tedious minutes, I with her haue spent. Not Hermia, but Helena I loue. VVho will not change a Rauen for a doue? The will of man is by his reason swai'd: And reason saies you are the worthier maide. Things growing are not ripe, vntill their season: So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason. And touching now, the point of humane skill, Reason becomes the Marshall to my will, And leads mee to your eyes; where I orelooke Loues stories, written in loues richest booke. Wherefore was I to this keene mockery borne? When, at your hands, did I deserue this scorne? Ist not enough, ist not enough, young man, That I did neuer, no nor neuer can, Deserue a sweete looke from Demetrius eye, But you must flout my insufficiency? Good troth you doe mee wrong (good sooth you doe) In such disdainfull manner, mee to wooe. But, fare you well: perforce, I must confesse, I thought you Lord of more true gentlenesse. O, that a Ladie, of one man refus'd, Should, of another, therefore be abus'd! She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleepe thou there, And neuer maist thou come Lysander neere. For, as a surfet of the sweetest things The deepest loathing, to the stomacke bringes: Or, as the heresies, that men doe leaue, Are hated most of those they did deceiue: So thou, my surfet, and my heresie, Of all bee hated; but the most, of mee: And all my powers addresse your loue and might, To honour Helen, and to be her knight.