Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
For if the Sun breed Maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing Carrion— Have you a daughter? I have my Lord. Let her not walk i' th' Sun: Conception is a blessing, but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend look too't. How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a Fishmonger: he is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth, I suffered much extremity for love: very near this. I'll speak to him again. What do you read my Lord? Words, words, words. What is the matter, my Lord? Between who? I mean the matter you mean, my Lord. Slanders Sir: for the Satirical slave says here, that old men have grey Beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick Amber, or Plum-Tree Gum: and that they have a plentiful lock of Wit, together with weak Hams. All which Sir, though I most powerfully, and potently believe; yet I hold it not Honesty to have it thus set down: For you yourself Sir, should be old as I am, if like a Crab you could go backward. Though this be madness, Yet there is Method in't: will you walk Out of the air my Lord? Into my Grave? Indeed that is out o' th' Air: How pregnant (sometimes) his Replies are? A happiness, That often Madness hits on, Which Reason and sanity could not So prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him, And suddenly contrive the means of meeting Between him, and my daughter. My Honourable Lord, I will most humbly Take my leave of you. You cannot Sir take from me any thing, that I will more willingly part withal, except my life, my life. Far you well my Lord. These tedious old fools. You go to seek my Lord Hamlet; there he is. God save you Sir. Mine honoured Lord? My most dear Lord? My excellent good friends? How dost thou Guildensterne? Oh, Rosincrane, good Lads: How do ye both? As the indifferent Children of the earth. Happy, in that we are not over-happy: on Fortune's Cap, we are not the very Button. Nor the Soles of her shoe? Neither my Lord. Then you live about her waste, or in the middle of her favour? Faith, her privates, we. In the secret parts of Fortune? Oh, most true: she is a Strumpet. What's the news? None my Lord; but that the World's grown honest. Then is Doomsday near: But your news is not true. Let me question more in particular: what have you my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to Prison hither? Prison, my Lord? Denmark's a Prison. Then is the World one. A goodly one, in which there are many Confines, Wards, and Dungeons; Denmark being one o' th' worst. We think not so my Lord. Why then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison.
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)
For if the Sun breed Magots in a dead dogge, being a good kiſſing Carrion— Haue you a daughter? I haue my Lord. Let her not walke i' th' Sunne: Conception is a bleſsing, but not as your daughter may conceiue. Friend looke too't. How ſay you by that? Still harping on my daughter: yet he knew me not at firſt; he ſaid I was a Fiſhmonger: he is farre gone, farre gone: and truly in my youth, I ſuffred much extreamity for loue: very neere this. Ile ſpeake to him againe. What do you read my Lord? Words, words, words. What is the matter, my Lord? Betweene who? I meane the matter you meane, my Lord. Slanders Sir: for the Satyricall ſlaue ſaies here, that old men haue gray Beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thicke Amber, or Plum-Tree Gumme: and that they haue a plentifull locke of Wit, together with weake Hammes. All which Sir, though I moſt powerfully, and potently beleeue; yet I holde it not Honeſtie to haue it thus ſet downe: For you your ſelfe Sir, ſhould be old as I am, if like a Crab you could go backward. Though this be madneſſe, Yet there is Method in't: will you walke Out of the ayre my Lord? Into my Graue? Indeed that is out o' th' Ayre: How pregnant (ſometimes) his Replies are? A happineſſe, That often Madneſſe hits on, Which Reaſon and Sanitie could not So proſperouſly be deliuer'd of. I will leaue him, And ſodainely contriue the meanes of meeting Betweene him, and my daughter. My Honourable Lord, I will moſt humbly Take my leaue of you. You cannot Sir take from me any thing, that I will more willingly part withall, except my life, my life. Fare you well my Lord. Theſe tedious old fooles. You goe to ſeeke my Lord Hamlet; there hee is. God ſaue you Sir. Mine honour'd Lord? My moſt deare Lord? My excellent good friends? How do'ſt thou Guildenſterne? Oh, Roſincrane▪ good Lads: How doe ye both? As the indifferent Children of the earth. Happy, in that we are not ouer-happy: on Fortunes Cap, we are not the very Button. Nor the Soales of her Shoo? Neither my Lord. Then you liue about her waſte, or in the middle of her fauour? Faith, her priuates, we. In the ſecret parts of Fortune? Oh, moſt true ſhe is a Strumpet. What's the newes? None my Lord; but that the World's growne honeſt. Then is Doomeſday neere: But your newes is not true. Let me queſtion more in particular: what haue you my good friends, deſerued at the hands of Fortune, that ſhe ſends you to Priſon hither? Priſon, my Lord? Denmark's a Priſon. Then is the World one. A goodly one, in which there are many Confines, Wards, and Dungeons; Denmarke being one o' th' worſt. We thinke not ſo my Lord. Why then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it ſo: to me it is a priſon.