Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea · 519 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
Dread my Lord, Your leave and favour to return to France, From whence, though willingly I came to Denmark To show my duty in your Coronation, Yet now I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again towards France, And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon. Have you your Father's leave? What says Pollonius? He hath my Lord: I do beseech you give him leave to go. Take thy fair hour Laertes, time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will: But now my Cousin Hamlet, and my Son? A little more than kin, and less than kind. How is it that the Clouds still hang on you? Not so my Lord, I am too much i' th' Sun. Good Hamlet cast thy nightly colour off, And let thine eye look like a Friend on Denmark. Do not for ever with thy veiled lids Seek for thy Noble Father in the dust; Thou knowst 'tis common, all that lives must dye, Passing through Nature, to Eternity. I Madam, it is common. If it be; Why seems it so particular with thee. Seems Madam? Nay, it is: I know not Seems: 'Tis not alone my Inky Cloak (good Mother) Nor Custommary suits of solemn Black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful River in the Eye, Nor the dejected hauiour of the Visage, Together with all Forms, Moods, shows of Grief, That can denote me truly. These indeed Seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that Within, which passeth show; These, but the Trappings, and the Suits of woe. 'Tis sweet and commendable In your Nature Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your Father: But you must know, your Father lost a Father, That Father lost, lost his, and the Suruiver bound In filial Obligation, for some term To do obsequious Sorrow. But to persever In obstinate Condolement, is a course Of impious stubbornness. 'Tis unmanly grief, It shows a will most incorrect to Heaven, A Heart unfortified, a Mind impatient, An Understanding simple, and vnschooled: For, what we know must be, and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish Opposition Take it to heart? Fie, 'tis a fault to Heaven, A fault against the Dead, a fault to Nature, To Reason most absurd, whose common Theme Is death of Fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first Coarse, till he that died to day, This must be so. We pray you throw to earth This vnpreuayling woe, and think of us As of a Father; For let the world take note, You are the most immediate to our Throne, And with no less Nobility of Love, Then that which dearest Father bears his Son, Do I impart towards you. For your intent In going back to School in Wittenberg. It is most retrograde to our desire: And we beseech you, bend you to remain here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest Courtier Cousin, and our Son.
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)
Dread my Lord, Your leaue and fauour to returne to France▪ From whence, though willingly I came to Denmarke To ſhew my duty in your Coronation, Yet now I muſt confeſſe, that duty done, My thoughts and wiſhes bend againe towards France, And bow them to your gracious leaue and pardon. Haue you your Fathers leaue? What ſayes Pollonius? He hath my Lord: I do beſeech you giue him leaue to go. Take thy faire houre Laertes, time be thine, And thy beſt graces ſpend it at thy will: But now my Coſin Hamlet, and my Sonne? A little more then kin, and leſſe then kinde. How is it that the Clouds ſtill hang on you? Not ſo my Lord, I am too much i' th' Sun. Good Hamlet caſt thy nightly colour off, And let thine eye looke like a Friend on Denmarke. Do not for euer with thy veyled lids Seeke for thy Noble Father in the duſt; Thou know'ſt 'tis common, all that liues muſt dye, Paſſing through Nature, to Eternity. I Madam, it is common. If it be; Why ſeemes it ſo particular with thee. Seemes Madam? Nay, it is: I know not Seemes: 'Tis not alone my Inky Cloake (good Mother) Nor Cuſtōmary ſuites of ſolemne Blacke, Nor windy ſuſpiration of forc'd breath, No, nor the fruitfull Riuer in the Eye, Nor the deiected hauiour of the Viſage, Together with all Formes, Moods, ſhewes of Griefe, That can denote me truly. Theſe indeed Seeme, For they are actions that a man might play: But I haue that Within, which paſſeth ſhow; Theſe, but the Trappings, and the Suites of woe. 'Tis ſweet and commendable In your Nature Hamlet, To giue theſe mourning duties to your Father: But you muſt know, your Father loſt a Father, That Father loſt, loſt his, and the Suruiuer bound In filiall Obligation, for ſome terme To do obſequious Sorrow. But to perſeuer In obſtinate Condolement, is a courſe Of impious ſtubbornneſſe. 'Tis vnmanly greefe, It ſhewes a will moſt incorrect to Heauen, A Heart vnfortified, a Minde impatient, An Vnderſtanding ſimple, and vnſchool'd: For, what we know muſt be, and is as common As any the moſt vulgar thing to ſence, Why ſhould we in our peeuiſh Oppoſition Take it to heart? Fye, 'tis a fault to Heauen, A fault againſt the Dead, a fault to Nature, To Reaſon moſt abſurd, whoſe common Theame Is death of Fathers, and who ſtill hath cried, From the firſt Coarſe, till he that dyed to day, This muſt be ſo. We pray you throw to earth This vnpreuayling woe, and thinke of vs As of a Father; For let the world take note, You are the moſt immediate to our Throne, And with no leſſe Nobility of Loue, Then that which deereſt Father beares his Sonne, Do I impart towards you. For your intent In going backe to Schoole in Wittenberg. It is moſt retrograde to our deſire: And we beſeech you, bend you to remaine Heere in the cheere and comfort of our eye, Our cheefeſt Courtier Coſin, and our Sonne.