Shakespeare, William · published 1603 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men · at University unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 517 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
And if any one ask thee hereafter, say, A Grave-maker, for the houses he builds Last till Doomsday. Fetch me a stoup of beer, go. A pickeaxe and a spade, A spade for and a winding sheet, Most fit it is, for 'twill be made, For such a guest most meet. Hath this fellow any feeling of himself, That is thus merry in making of a grave? See how the slave joles their heads against the earth. My lord, Custom hath made it in him seem nothing. A pickax and a spade, a spade, For and a winding sheete, Most fit it is for to be made, For such a guest most meet. Look you, there's another Horatio. Why may't not be the skull of some Lawyer? Me thinks he should indite that fellow Of an action of Battery, for knocking Him about the pate with's shovel: now where is your Quirks and quillets now, your vouchers and Double vouchers, your leases and freehold, And tenements? why that same box there will scarce Hold the conveyance of his land, and must The honour lie there? O pitiful transformance! I prithee tell me Horatio, Is parchment made of sheep-skinnes? I my Lord, and of calues-skinnes too. I faith they prove themselves sheep and calves That deal with them, or put their trust in them. There's another, why may not that be such a ones skull, that praised my Lord such a ones horse, When he meant to beg him? Horatio, I prithee Let's question yonder fellow. Now my friend, whose grave is this? Mine sir. But who must lie in it? If I should say, I should, I should lie in my throat sir. What man must be buried here? No man sir▪ What woman? No woman neither sir, but indeed One that was a woman. An excellent fellow by the Lord Horatio, This seven years have I noted it: the toe of the peasant, Comes so near the heel of the courtier, That he gawles his kibe, I prithee tell me one thing, How long will a man lie in the ground before he rots? I faith sir, if he be not rotten before He be laid in, as we have many pocky corpses, He will last you, eight years, a tanner Will last you eight years full out, or nine. And why a tanner Why his hide is so tanned with his trade, That it will hold out water that's a perilous Devourer of your dead body, a great soaker. Look you, here's a skull hath been here this dozen year, Let me see, I ever since our last king Hamlet Slew Fortenbrasse in combat, young Hamlets father, He that's mad. I mary, how came he mad? I faith very strangely, by losing of his wits. Upon what ground? A this ground, in Denmark. Where is he now? Why now they sent him to England. To England! wherefore? Why they say he shall have his wits there, Or if he have not, 'tis no great matter there, It will not be seen there. Why not there?
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)
And if any one aske thee hereafter, say, A Graue-maker, for the houses he buildes Last till Doomes-day. Fetch me a stope of beere, goe. A picke-axe and a spade, A spade for and a winding sheete, Most fit it is, for t'will be made, For such a ghest most meete. Hath this fellow any feeling of himselfe, That is thus merry in making of a graue? See how the slaue joles their heads against the earth. My lord, Custome hath made it in him seeme nothing. A pick-axe and a spade, a spade, For and a winding fheete, Most fit it is for to be made, For such a ghest most meet. Looke you, there's another Horatio. Why mai't not be the scull of some Lawyer? Me thinkes he should indite that fellow Of an action of Batterie, for knocking Him about the pate with's shouel: now where is your Quirkes and quillets now, your vouchers and Double vouchers, your leases and free-holde, And tenements? why that same boxe there will scarse Holde the conueiance of his land, and must The honor lie thre? O pittifull transformance! I prethee tell me Horatio, Is parchment made of sheep-skinnes? I my Lorde, and of calues-skinnes too. I faith they prooue themselues sheepe and calues That deale with them, or put their trust in them. There's another, why may not that be such a ones Scull, that praised my Lord such a ones horse, When he meant to beg him? Horatio, I prethee Lets question yonder fellow. Now my friend, whose graue is this? Mine sir. But who must lie in it? If I should say, I should, I should lie in my throat sir. What man must be buried here? No man sir▪ What woman? No woman neither sir, but indeede One that was a woman. An excellent fellow by the Lord Horatio, This seauen yeares haue I noted it: the toe of the pesant, Comes so neere the heele of the courtier, That hee gawles his kibe, I prethee tell mee one thing, How long will a man lie in the ground before hee rots? I faith sir, if hee be not rotten before He be laide in, as we haue many pocky corses, He will last you, eight yeares, a tanner Will last you eight yeares full out, or nine. And why a tanner Why his hide is so tanned with his trade, That it will holde out water that's a parlous Deuourer of your dead body, a great soaker. Looke you, heres a scull hath bin here this dozen yeare, Let me see, I euer since our last king Hamlet Slew Fortenbrasse in combat, yong Hamlets father, Hee that's mad. I mary, how came he madde? I faith very strangely, by loosing of his wittes. Vpon what ground? A this ground, in Denmarke. Where is he now? Why now they sent him to England. To England! wherefore? Why they say he shall haue his wittes there, Or if he haue not, t'is no great matter there, It will not be seene there. Why not there?