Shakespeare, William · published 1603 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men · at University unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 515 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Two months, nay then let the devil wear black, For i'll have a suit of Sables: Iesus, two months dead, And not forgotten yet? nay then there's some Likelihood, a gentleman's death may outlive memory, But by my faith he must build churches then, Or else he must follow the old Epitithe, With hoh, with ho, the hobi-horse is forgot. Your jests are keen my Lord. It would cost you a groaning to take them off. Still better and worse. So you must take your husband, begin. Murdered Begin, a pox, leave thy damnable faces and begin, Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing. Confederate season, else no creature seeing: Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate's bane thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic, and dire property, One wholesome life usurps immediately. He poisons him for his estate. Lights, I will to bed. The king rises, lights ho. What, frighted with false fires? Then let the stricken dear go weep, The heart ungalled play, For some must laugh, while some must weep, Thus runs the world away. The king is moved my lord. I Horatio, i'll take the Ghosts word For more than all the coin in Denmark. Now my lord, how is't with you? And if the king like not the tragedy, Why then belike he likes it not pardie. We are very glad to see your grace so pleasant, My good lord, let us again entreat To know of you the ground and cause of your distemperature My▪ lord, your mother craves to speak with you. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. But my good Lord, shall I entreat thus much? I pray will you play upon this pipe? Alas my lord I cannot. Pray will you. I have no skill my Lord. why look, it is a thing of nothing, 'tis but stopping of these holes, And with a little breath from your lips, It will give most delicate music. But this cannot we do my Lord. Pray now, pray heartily, I beseech you. My lord we cannot. Why how unworthy a thing would you make of me? You would seem to know my stops, you would play upon me, You would search the very inward part of my heart, And dive into the secret of my soul. 'Zounds do you think jam easier to be played On, than a pipe? call me what Instrument You will, though you can fret me, yet you can not Play upon me, beside, to be demanded by a sponge. How a sponge my Lord? I sir, a sponge, that soaks up the king's Countenance, favours, and rewards, that makes His liberality your store house: but such as you, Do the king, in the end, best service; For he doth keep you as an Ape doth nuts, In the corner of his law, first mouths you, Then swallows you: so when he hath need Of you, 'tis but squeefing of you, And sponge, you shall be dry again, you shall.
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)
Two months, nay then let the diuell weare blacke, For i'le haue a sute of Sables: Iesus, two months dead, And not forgotten yet? nay then there's some Likelyhood, a gentlemans death may outliue memorie, But by my faith hee must build churches then, Or els hee must follow the olde Epitithe, With hoh, with ho, the hobi-horse is forgot. Your iests are keene my Lord. It would cost you a groning to take them off. Still better and worse. So you must take your husband, begin. Murdred Begin, a poxe, leaue thy damnable faces and begin, Come, the croking rauen doth bellow for reuenge. Thoughts blacke, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing. Confederate season, else no creature seeing: Thou mixture rancke, of midnight weedes collected, With Hecates bane thrise blasted, thrise infected, Thy naturall magicke, and dire propertie, One wholesome life vsurps immediately. He poysons him for his estate. Lights, I will to bed. The king rises, lights hoe. What, frighted with false fires? Then let the stricken deere goe weepe, The Hart vngalled play, For some must laugh, while some must weepe, Thus runnes the world away. The king is mooued my lord. I Horatio, i'le take the Ghosts word For more then all the coyne in Denmarke. Now my lord, how i'st with you? And if the king like not the tragedy, Why then belike he likes it not perdy. We are very glad to see your grace so pleasant, My good lord, let vs againe intreate To know of you the ground and cause of your distemperature My▪lord, your mother craues to speake with you. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. But my good Lord, shall I intreate thus much? I pray will you play vpon this pipe? Alas my lord I cannot. Pray will you. I haue no skill my Lord. why looke, it is a thing of nothing, T'is but stopping of these holes, And with a little breath from your lips, It will giue most delicate musick. But this cannot wee do my Lord. Pray now, pray hartily, I beseech you. My lord wee cannot. Why how vnworthy a thing would you make of me? You would seeme to know my stops, you would play vpon mee, You would search the very inward part of my hart, And diue into the secreet of my soule. Zownds do you thinke Iam easier to be pla'yd On, then a pipe? call mee what Instrument You will, though you can frett mee, yet you can not Play vpon mee, besides, to be demanded by a spunge. How a spunge my Lord? I sir, a spunge, that sokes vp the kings Countenance, fauours, and rewardes, that makes His liberalitie your store house: but such as you, Do the king, in the end, best seruise; For hee doth keep you as an Ape doth nuttes, In the corner of his law, first mouthes you, Then swallowes you: so when hee hath need Of you, t'is but squeefing of you, And spunge, you shall be dry againe, you shall.