Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T48 Addressing a lady: love, desire and inti · 485 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T48: lady, love, heart, fair, eyes, la, lord, tears, fie, face.
Alas sweet Lady: what imports this Song? Say you? Nay pray you mark. He is dead and gone Lady, he is dead and gone, At his head a grass-green Turf, at his heels a stone. Nay but Ophelia. Pray you mark. White his Shroud as the Mountain Snow. Alas, look here my Lord. Larded with sweet flowers: Which bewept to the grave did not go, With true-love showers. How do ye, pretty Lady? Well, God diled you. They say the Owl was a Baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your Table. Conceit upon her Father. Pray you let's have no words of this: but when they ask you what it means, say you this: Tomorrow is S. Valentine's day, all in the morning betime, And I a Maid at your Window to be your Valentine. Then up he rose, & donned his clothes, & dupt the chamber door, Let in the Maid, that out a Maid, never departed more. Pretty Ophelia. Indeed lafoy? without an oath I'll make an end out. By gis, and by S. Charity, Alack, and sie for shame: Young men will do't, if they come too't, By Cock they are too blame. Quoth she before you tumbled me, You promised me to Wed: So would I ha' done by yonder Sun, And thou hadst not come to my bed. How long hath she been this? I hope all will be well. We must be patiented, but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i' th' cold ground: My brother shall know of it, and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my Coach: Good-night Ladies: Good-night sweet Ladies: Good-night, good-night. Fellow her close, Give her good watch I pray you: Oh this is the poison of deep grief, it springs All from her Father's death. Oh Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows comes, they come not single spies, But in Battaliaes. First, her Father slain, Next your Son gone, and he most violent Author Of his own just remove: the people muddied, Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts, and whispers For good Polonius death; and we have, done but greenly In hugger mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia Divided from herself, and her fair judgement, Without the which we are Pictures, or mere Beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these, Her Brother is in secret come from France, Keeps on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not Buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent Speeches of his Father's death, Where in necessity of matter Beggared, Will nothing stick our persons to Arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering Piece in many places, Gives me superfluous death. Alack, what noise is this? Where are my Swissers? Let them guard the door. What is the matter?
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)
Alas ſweet Lady: what imports this Song? Say you? Nay pray you marke. He is dead and gone Lady, he is dead and gone, At his head a graſſe-greene Turfe, at his heeles a ſtone. Nay but Ophelia. Pray you marke. White his Shrow'd as the Mountaine Snow. Alas, looke heere my Lord. Larded with ſweet flowers: Which bewept to the graue did not go, With true-loue ſhowres. How do ye, pretty Lady? Well, God dil'd you. They ſay the Owle was a Bakers daughter. Lord, wee know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your Table. Conceit vpon her Father. Pray you let's haue no words of this: but when they aske you what it meanes, ſay you this: Tomorrow is S. Valentines day, all in the morning betime, And I a Maid at your Window to be your Valentine. Then vp he roſe, & don'd his clothes, & dupt the chamber dore, Let in the Maid, that out a Maid, neuer departed more. Pretty Ophelia. Indeed la? without an oath Ile make an end out. By gis, and by S. Charity, Alacke, and ſie for ſhame: Yong men wil doo't, if they come too't, By Cocke they are too blame. Quoth ſhe before you tumbled me, You promis'd me to Wed: So would I ha done by yonder Sunne, And thou hadſt not come to my bed. How long hath ſhe bin this? I hope all will be well. We muſt bee patient, but I cannot chooſe but weepe, to thinke they ſhould lay him i' th' cold ground: My brother ſhall knowe of it, and ſo I thanke you for your good counſell. Come, my Coach: Goodnight Ladies: Goodnight ſweet Ladies: Goodnight, goodnight. Follow her cloſe, Giue her good watch I pray you: Oh this is the poyſon of deepe greefe, it ſprings All from her Fathers death. Oh Gertrude, Gertrude, When ſorrowes comes, they come not ſingle ſpies, But in Battaliaes. Firſt, her Father ſlaine, Next your Sonne gone, and he moſt violent Author Of his owne iuſt remoue: the people muddied, Thicke and vnwholſome in their thoughts, and whiſpers For good Polonius death; and we haue, done but greenly In hugger mugger to interre him. Poore Ophelia Diuided from her ſelfe, and her faire Iudgement, Without the which we are Pictures, or meere Beaſts. Laſt, and as much containing as all theſe, Her Brother is in ſecret come from France, Keepes on his wonder, keepes himſelfe in clouds, And wants not Buzzers to infect his eare With peſtilent Speeches of his Fathers death, Where in neceſſitie of matter Beggard, Will nothing ſticke our perſons to Arraigne In eare and eare. O my deere Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering Peece in many places, Giues me ſuperfluous death. Alacke, what noyſe is this? Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the doore. What is the matter?