Shakespeare, William · published 1603 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men · at University T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.79 · 501 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
Look my lord if he hath not changed his colour, And hath tears in his eyes: no more good heart, no more. 'tis well, 'tis very well, I pray my lord, Will you see the Players well bestowed, I tell you they are the Chronicles And brief abstracts of the time, After your death I can tell you, You were better have a bad Epiteeth, Then their ill report while you live. My lord, I will use them according to their deserts. O far better man, use every man after his deserts, Then who should scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity, The less they deserve, the greater credit yours. Welcome my good fellows. Come hither masters, can you not play the murder of Gonsage? Yes my Lord. And couldst not thou for a need study me Some dozen or sixteen lines, Which I would set down and insert? Yes very easily my good Lord. 'tis well, I thank you: follow that lord: And do you hear sirs? take heed you mock him not. Gentlemen, for your kindness I thank you, And for a time I would desire you leave me. Our love and duty is at your command. Why what a dunghill idiot slave am I? Why these Players here draw water from eyes: For Hecuba, why what is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba? What would he do and if he had my loss? His father murdered, and a Crown bereft him, He would turn all his tears to drops of blood, Amaze the standers by with his laments, Strike more than wonder in the ividiciall ears, Confound the ignorant, and make mute the wise, Indeed his passion would be general. Yet I like to an ass and Iohn a Dreams, Having my father murdered by a villain, Stand still, and let it pass, why sure I am a coward: Who plucks me by the beard, or twites my nose, Give's me the lie i'th' throat down to the lungs, Sure I should take it, or else I have no gall, Or by this I should a fatted all the region kites With this slaves offell, this damned villain, Treacherous, bawdy, murderous villain: Why this is brave, that I the son of my dear father, Should like a scallion, like a very drab Thus rail in words. About my brain, I have heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play, Hath, by the very cunning of the scene, confessed a murder Committed long before. This spirit that I have seen may be the Devil, And out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such men, Doth seek to damn me, I will have sounder proofs, The play's the thing, Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King. Lords, can you by no means find The cause of our son Hamlets lunacy? You being so near in love, even from his youth, Me thinks should gain more than a stranger should.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1066–1126 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 17 of 32 in this edition
Length
501 words · 647 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T9 — Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playerscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.794 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T16 · seed 44: T15 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Looke my lord if he hath not changde his colour, And hath teares in his eyes: no more good heart, no more. T'is well, t'is very well, I pray my lord, Will you see the Players well bestowed, I tell you they are the Chronicles And briefe abstracts of the time, After your death I can tell you, You were better haue a bad Epiteeth, Then their ill report while you liue. My lord, I will vse them according to their deserts. O farre better man, vse euery man after his deserts, Then who should scape whipping? Vse them after your owne honor and dignitie, The lesse they deserue, the greater credit's yours. Welcome my good fellowes. Come hither maisters, can you not play the murder of Gonsage? Yes my Lord. And could'st not thou for a neede study me Some dozen or sixteene lines, Which I would set downe and insert? Yes very easily my good Lord. T'is well, I thanke you: follow that lord: And doe you heare sirs? take heede you mocke him not. Gentlemen, for your kindnes I thanke you, And for a time I would desire you leaue me. Our loue and duetie is at your commaund. Why what a dunghill idiote slaue am I? Why these Players here draw water from eyes: For Hecuba, why what is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba? What would he do and if he had my losse? His father murdred, and a Crowne bereft him, He would turne all his teares to droppes of blood, Amaze the standers by with his laments, Strike more then wonder in the iuidiciall eares, Confound the ignorant, and make mute the wise, Indeede his passion would be generall. Yet I like to an asse and Iohn a Dreames, Hauing my father murdred by a villaine, Stand still, and let it passe, why sure I am a coward: Who pluckes me by the beard, or twites my nose, Giue's me the lie i'th throate downe to the lungs, Sure I should take it, or else I haue no gall, Or by this I should a fatted all the region kites With this slaues offell, this damned villaine, Treacherous, bawdy, murderous villaine: Why this is braue, that I the sonne of my deare father, Should like a scalion, like a very drabbe Thus raile in wordes. About my braine, I haue heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play, Hath, by the very cunning of the scene, confest a murder Committed long before. This spirit that I haue seene may be the Diuell, And out of my weakenesse and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such men, Doth seeke to damne me, I will haue sounder proofes, The play's the thing, Wherein I'le catch the conscience of the King. Lordes, can you by no meanes finde The cause of our sonne Hamlets lunacie? You being so neere in loue, euen from his youth, Me thinkes should gaine more than a stranger should.