Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 513 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Oh 'tis true: How smart a lash that speech doth give my Conscience? The Harlot's Cheek beautied with plaist'ring Art Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it, Then is my deed, to my most painted word. Oh heavy burden! I hear him coming, let's withdraw my Lord. To be, or not to be, that is the Question: Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune, Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles, And by opposing end them: to dye, to sleep No more; and by a sleep, to say we end The Heart-ake, and the thousand Natural shocks That Flesh is heir too? 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To dye to sleep, To sleep, perchance to Dream; I, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuffleled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes Calamity of so long life: For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time, The Oppressor's wrong, the poor man's Contumely, The pangs of disprized Love, the Law's delay, The insolence of Office, and the Spurns That patiented merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his Quietus make With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Farthels bear To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered Country, from whose Born No traveler returns, Puzels the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Then fly to others that we know not of. Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all, And thus the Native hue of Resolution Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard their Currants turn away, And lose the name of Action. Soft you now, The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons Be all my sins remembered. Good my Lord, How does your Honour for this many a day? I humbly thank you: well, well, well. My Lord, I have Remembrances of yours, That I have longed long to redeliver. I pray you now, receive them. No, no, I never gave you aught. My honoured Lord, I know right well you did, And with them words of so sweet breath composed, As made the things more rich, then perfume left: Take these again, for to the Noble mind Rich gifts wax poor, when givers prove unkind. There my Lord. Ha', ha': Are you honest? My Lord. Are you fair? What means your Lordship? That if you be honest and fair, your Honesty should admit no discourse to your Beauty. Can Beauty my Lord, have better Commerce than your Honesty? I truly: for the power of Beauty, will sooner transform Honesty from what it is, to a Bawd, than the force of Honesty can translate Beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a Paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once. Indeed my Lord, you made me believe so.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T5 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Oh 'tis true: How ſmart a laſh that ſpeech doth giue my Conſcience? The Harlots Cheeke beautied with plaiſt'ring Art Is not more vgly to the thing that helpes it, Then is my deede, to my moſt painted word. Oh heauie burthen! I heare him comming, let's withdraw my Lord. To be, or not to be, that is the Queſtion: Whether 'tis Nobler in the minde to ſuffer The Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune, Or to take Armes againſt a Sea of troubles, And by oppoſing end them: to dye, to ſleepe No more; and by a ſleepe, to ſay we end The Heart-ake, and the thouſand Naturall ſhockes That Fleſh is heyre too? 'Tis a conſummation Deuoutly to be wiſh'd. To dye to ſleepe, To ſleepe, perchance to Dreame; I, there's the rub, For in that ſleepe of death, what dreames may come, When we haue ſhufflel'd off this mortall coile, Muſt giue vs pawſe. There's the reſpect That makes Calamity of ſo long life: For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time, The Oppreſſors wrong, the poore mans Contumely, The pangs of diſpriz'd Loue, the Lawes delay, The inſolence of Office, and the Spurnes That patient merit of the vnworthy takes, When he himſelfe might his Quietus make With a bare Bodkin? Who would theſe Fardles beare To grunt and ſweat vnder a weary life, But that the dread of ſomething after death, The vndiſcouered Countrey, from whoſe Borne No Traueller returnes, Puzels the will, And makes vs rather beare thoſe illes we haue, Then flye to others that we know not of. Thus Conſcience does make Cowards of vs all, And thus the Natiue hew of Reſolution Is ſicklied o're, with the pale caſt of Thought, And enterprizes of great pith and moment, With this regard their Currants turne away, And looſe the name of Action. Soft you now, The faire Ophelia? Nimph, in thy Orizons Be all my ſinnes remembred. Good my Lord, How does your Honor for this many a day? I humbly thanke you: well, well, well. My Lord, I haue Remembrances of yours, That I haue longed long to re-deliuer. I pray you now, receiue them. No, no, I neuer gaue you ought. My honor'd Lord, I know right well you did, And with them words of ſo ſweet breath compos'd, As made the things more rich, then perfume left: Take theſe againe, for to the Noble minde Rich gifts wax poore, when giuers proue vnkinde. There my Lord. Ha, ha: Are you honeſt? My Lord. Are you faire? What meanes your Lordſhip? That if you be honeſt and faire, your Honeſty ſhould admit no diſcourſe to your Beautie. Could Beautie my Lord, haue better Comerce then your Honeſtie? I trulie: for the power of Beautie, will ſooner transforme Honeſtie from what it is, to a Bawd, then the force of Honeſtie can tranſlate Beautie into his likeneſſe. This was ſometime a Paradox, but now the time giues it proofe. I did loue you once. Indeed my Lord, you made me beleeue ſo.