Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T42: harry, percy, lord, king, god, falstalffe, frances, mowbray, life, mortimer.
Pleaseth your honour, all he says, is false. For my own part I love good husbandry, But hate dishonourable covetise. Youth ne'er aspires to virtues perfect growth, Till his wild oats be sown: and so the earth, Until his weeds be rotted, with my frosts, Is not for any seed, or tillage fit. He must be purged that hath surfeited: The fields have surfeited with Summer fruits, They must be purged, made poor, oppressed with snow, Ere they recover their decayed pride, For overbarring of the streams with Ice. Who locks not poison from his children's taste? When Winter reigns, the water is so cold, That it is poison, present death to those That wash, or bathe their limbs, in his cold streams. The slipprier that ways are under us, The better it makes us to heed our steps, And look ere we presume too rashly on: If that my sons have misbehaved themselves, A God's name let them answer't fore my Lord. Now I beseech your honour it may be so. With all my heart: Vertumnus, go for them. This same Harry Baker is such a necessary fellow to go on errands, as you shall not find in a country. It is pity but he should have another silver arrow, if it be but for crossing the stage, with his cap on. To weary out the time until they come, Sing me some doleful ditty to the Lute, That may complain my near approaching death. Adieu, farewell earth's bliss, This world uncertain is, Fond are life's lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys, None from his darts can fly, I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health, Physic himself must fade. All things, to end are made, The plague full swift goes high, I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Beauty is but a flower, Which wrinkles will devour, Brightness falls from the air, Queens have died young, and fair, Dust hath closed Helen's eye. I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Strength stoops unto the grave, Worms feed on Hector brave, Swords may not fight with fate, Earth still holds ope her gate, Come, come, the bells do cry. I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Wit with his wantonness, Tasteth death's bitterness, hell's executioner, Hath no ears for to hear, What vain art can reply. I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Haste therefore each degree, To welcome destiny: Heaven is our heritage, Earth but a player's stage, Mount we unto the sky. I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Beshrew me, but thy song hath moved me. Lord have mercy on us, how lamentable 'tis! I have dispatched, my Lord, I have brought you them you sent me for.
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)
Pleaseth your honor, all he sayes, is false. For my owne part I loue good husbandrie, But hate dishonourable couetize. Youth ne're aspires to vertues perfect growth, Till his wilde oatesbe sowne: and so the earth, Vntill his weeds be rotted, with my frosts, Is not for any seede, or tillage fit. He must be purged that hath surfeited: The fields haue surfeited with Summer fruites, They must be purg'd, made poore, opprest with snow, Ere they recouer their decayed pride, For ouerbarring of the streames with Ice. Who locks not poyson from his childrens taste? When Winter raignes, the water is so colde, That it is poyson, present death to those That wash, or bathe their lims, in his colde streames. The slipprier that wayes are vnder vs, The better it makes vs to heed our steps, And looke e're we presume too rashly on: If that my sonnes haue misbehau'd themselues, A Gods name let them answer't fore my Lord. Now I beseech your honor it may be so. With all my heart: Vertumnus, go for them. This same Harry Baker is such a necessary fellow to go on arrants, as you shall not finde in a country. It is pitty but he should haue another siluer arrow, if it be but for crossing the stage, with his cap on. To wearie out the time vntill they come, Sing me some dolefull ditty to the Lute, That may complaine my neere approching death. Adieu, farewell earths blisse, This world vncertaine is, Fond are lifes lustfull ioyes, Death proues them all but toyes, None from his darts can flye, I am sick, I must dye. Lord haue mercy on vs. Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health, Phisick himselfe must fade. All things, to end are made, The plague full swift goes hye, I am sick, I must dye, Lord haue mercy on vs. Beauty is but a flowre, Which wrinckles will deuoure, Brightnesse falls from the ayre, Queenes haue died yong, and faire, Dust hath closde Helens eye. I am sick, I must dye, Lord haue mercy on vs. Strength stoopes vnto the graue, Wormes feed on Hector braue, Swords may not fight with fate, Earth still holds ope her gate, Come, come, the bells do crye. I am sick, I must dye, Lord haue mercy on vs. VVit with his wantonnesse, Tasteth deaths bitternesse, Hels executioner, Hath no eares for to heare, VVhat vaine art can reply. I am sick, I must dye, Lord haue mercy on vs. Haste therefore eche degree, To welcome destiny: Heauen is our heritage, Earth but a players stage, Mount wee vnto the sky. I am sick, I must dye, Lord haue mercy on vs. Beshrew mee, but thy song hath moued mee. Lord haue mercy on vs, how lamentable 'tis▪ I haue dispatcht, my Lord, I haue brought you them you sent mee for.