Nashe, Thomas · published 1600 · first performed or written 1592 (Annals) comedy · Unknown T38 Death, parting and grief at court typicality 0.83 · 483 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
To wait upon her till she be returned. Autumn, I charge thee, when that I am dead, Be priest and serviceable at her beck, Present her with thy goodliest ripened fruits, Unclothe no Arbours where she ever sat, Touch not a tree, thou thinkst she may pass by. And Winter, with thy writhen frosty face, Smooth up thy visage when thou look'st on her, Thou never look'st on such bright majesty: A charmed circle draw about her court, Wherein warm days may dance, & no cold come, On seas let winds make war, not vex her rest, Quiet enclose her bed, thought fly her breast. Ah gracious Queen, though Summer pine away, Yet let thy flourishing stand at a stay, First droop this universals aged frame, ere any malady thy strength should tame: Heaven raise up pillars to uphold thy hand, Peace may have still his temple in thy land. Lo, I have said, this is the total sum. Autumn and Winter, on your faithfulness, For the performance I do firmly build. Farewell, my friends, Summer bids you farewell, Archers, and bowlers, all my followers, A dieu, and dwell with desolation, Silence must be your master's mansion: Slow marching thus, descend I to the fiends. Weep heavens, mourn earth, here Summer ends. Autumn hath all the Summers fruitful treasure, Gone is our sport, fled is poor Croyden's pleasure: Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace, Ah who shall hide us, from the Winter's face? Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, And here we lie God knows, with little ease: From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliver us. London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn, Trades cry, Woe worth, that ever they were borne: The want of Term, is town and City's harms, Close chambers we do want, to keep us warm, Long banished must we live from our friends: This low built house, will bring us to our ends. From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliver us. How is't? how is't? you that be of the graver sort, do you think these youths worthy of a Plaudite for praying for the Queen, and singing of the litany? they are poor fellows I must needs say, and have bestowed great labour in sowing leaves, and grass, and straw, and moss upon cast suits. You may do well to warm your hands with clapping, before you go to bed, and send them to the tavern with merry hearts. Here is a pretty boy comes with an Epilogue, to get him audacity. I pray you sit still a little, and hear him say his lesson without book. It is a good boy, be not afraid, turn thy face to my Lord. Thou and I will play at pouch, tomorrow morning for a breakfast. Come and sit on my knee, and I'll dance thee, if thou canst not endure to stand.
seed 43: T44 · seed 44: T6 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
To waite vpon her till she be returnd. Autumne, I charge thee, when that I am dead, Be prest and seruiceable at her beck, Present her with thy goodliest ripened fruites, Vnclothe no Arbors where she euer sate, Touch not a tree, thou thinkst she may passe by. And Winter, with thy wrythen frostie face, Smoothe vp thy visage when thou lookst on her, Thou neuer lookst on such bright maiestie: A charmed circle draw about her court, Wherein warme dayes may daunce, & no cold come, On seas let winds make warre, not vexe her rest, Quiet inclose her bed, thought flye her brest. Ah gracious Queene, though Summer pine away, Yet let thy flourishing stand at a stay, First droupe this vniuersals aged frame, E're any malady thy strength should tame: Heauen raise vp pillers to vphold thy hand, Peace may haue still his temple in thy land. Loe, I haue said, this is the totall summe. Autumne and Winter, on your faithfulnesse, For the performance I do firmely builde. Farewell, my friends, Summer bids you farewell, Archers, and bowlers, all my followers, A dieu, and dwell with desolation, Silence must be your masters mansion: Slow marching thus, discend I to the feends. Weepe heauens, mourne earth, here Summer ends. Autumne hath all the Summers fruitefull treasure, Gone is our sport, fled is poore Croydens pleasure: Short dayes, sharpe dayes, long nights come on a pace, Ah who shall hide vs, from the Winters face? Colde dooth increase, the sicknesse will not cease, And here we lye God knowes, with little ease: From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliuer vs. London dooth mourne, Lambith is quite forlorne, Trades cry, Woe worth, that euer they were borne: The want of Terme, is towne and Cities harms, Close chambers we do want, to keepe vs warme, Long banished must we liue from our friends: This lowe built bouse, will bring vs to our ends. From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliuer vs. How is't? how is't? you that be of the grauer sort, do you thinke these youths worthy of a Plaudite for praying for the Queene, and singing of the Letany? they are poore fellowes I must needes say, and haue bestowed great labour in sowing leaues, and grasse, and strawe, and mosse vpon cast suites. You may do well to warme your hands with clapping, before you go to bed, and send them to the tauerne with merry hearts. Here is a pretty boy comes with an Epilogue, to get him audacity. I pray you sit still a little, and heare him say his lesson without booke. It is a good boy, be not afraide, turne thy face to my Lord. Thou and I will play at poutch, to morrow morning for a breakfast. Come and sit on my knee, and Ile daunce thee, if thou canst not indure to stand.