Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T19 Virtue, Fortune and Vice as abstractions · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T19: virtue, fortune, virtues, honour, fame, vice, envy, world, pride, great.
I do believe you. Think what now you speak: But what we do determine, oft we break: Purpose is but the slave to Memory, Of violent Birth, but poor validity: Which now like Fruit unripe sticks on the Tree, But fall unshaken, when they mellow be. Most necessary 'tis, that we forget To pay ourselves, what to ourselves is debt: What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of other Grief or joy, Their own ennactors with themselves destroy: Where joy most Revels, Grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves on slender accident. This world is not for ay, nor 'tis not strange That even our Loves should with our Fortune's change. For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether Love lead Fortune, or else Fortune Love.. The great man down, you mark his favourites flies, The poor advanced makes Friends of Enemies: And hitherto doth Love on Fortune tend, For who not needs, shall never lack a Friend: And who in want a hollow Friend doth try, Directly seasons him his Enemy. But orderly to end, where I begun, Our Wills and Fates do so contrary run, That our Devices still are overthrown, Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So think thou wilt no second Husband wed. But die thy thoughts, when thy first Lord is dead. Nor Earth to give me food, nor Heaven light, Sport and repose lock from me day and night: Each opposite that blanks the face of joy, Meet what I would have well, and it destroy: Both here, and hence, pursue me lasting strife, If once a Widow, ever I be Wife. If she should break it now. 'Tis deeply sworn: Sweet, leave me here a while, My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. Sleep rock thy Brain, And never come mischance between us twain. Madam, how like you this Play? The Lady protests to much me thinks. Oh but she'll keep her word. Have you heard the Argument, is there no Offence in't? No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest, no Offence i' th' world. What do you call the Play? The Mousetrap: Marry how? Tropically: This Play is the Image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the Duke's name, his wife Baptista: you shall see anon: 'tis a knavish piece of work: But what o' that? Your Majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not: let the gall'd iade winch: our withers are vnrung. This is one Lucianus nephew to the King. You are a good Chorus, my Lord. I could interpret between you and your love: if I could see the Puppets dallying. You are keen my Lord, you are keen. It would cost you a groaning, to take off my edge. Still better and worse. So you mistake Husbands. Begin Murderer. Pox, leave thy damnable Faces, and begin. Come, the croaking Raven doth bellow for Revenge.
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)
I do beleeue you. Think what now you ſpeak: But what we do determine, oft we breake: Purpoſe is but the ſlaue to Memorie, Of violent Birth, but poore validitie: Which now like Fruite vnripe ſtickes on the Tree, But fall vnſhaken, when they mellow bee. Moſt neceſſary 'tis, that we forget To pay our ſelues, what to our ſelues is debt: What to our ſelues in paſſion we propoſe, The paſſion ending, doth the purpoſe loſe. The violence of other Greefe or Ioy, Their owne ennactors with themſelues deſtroy: Where Ioy moſt Reuels, Greefe doth moſt lament; Greefe ioyes, Ioy greeues on ſlender accident. This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not ſtrange That euen our Loues ſhould with our Fortunes change. For 'tis a queſtion left vs yet to proue, Whether Loue lead Fortune, or elſe Fortune Loue. The great man downe, you marke his fauourites flies, The poore aduanc'd makes Friends of Enemies: And hitherto doth Loue on Fortune tend, For who not needs, ſhall neuer lacke a Frend: And who in want a hollow Friend doth try, Directly ſeaſons him his Enemie. But orderly to end, where I begun, Our Willes and Fates do ſo contrary run, That our Deuices ſtill are ouerthrowne, Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our owne. So thinke thou wilt no ſecond Husband wed. But die thy thoughts, when thy firſt Lord is dead. Nor Earth to giue me food, nor Heauen light, Sport and repoſe locke from me day and night: Each oppoſite that blankes the face of ioy, Meet what I would haue well, and it deſtroy: Both heere, and hence, purſue me laſting ſtrife, If once a Widdow, euer I be Wife. If ſhe ſhould breake it now. 'Tis deepely ſworne: Sweet, leaue me heere a while, My ſpirits grow dull, and faine I would beguile The tedious day with ſleepe. Sleepe rocke thy Braine, And neuer come miſchance betweene vs twaine. Madam, how like you this Play? The Lady proteſts to much me thinkes. Oh but ſhee'l keepe her word. Haue you heard the Argument, is there no Offence in't? No, no, they do but ieſt, poyſon in ieſt, no Offence i' th' world. What do you call the Play? The Mouſe-trap: Marry how? Tropically: This Play is the Image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the Dukes name, his wife Baptiſta: you ſhall ſee anon: 'tis a knauiſh peece of worke: But what o' that? Your Maieſtie, and wee that haue free ſoules, it touches vs not: let the gail diade winch: our withers are vnrung. This is one Lucianus nephew to the King. You are a good Chorus, my Lord. I could interpret betweene you and your loue: if I could ſee the Puppets dallying. You are keene my Lord, you are keene. It would coſt you a groaning, to take off my edge. Still better and worſe. So you miſtake Husbands. Begin Murderer. Pox, leaue thy damnable Faces, and begin. Come, the croaking Rauen doth bellow for Reuenge.