Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.78 · 515 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
No place indeed should murder Sancturize; Revenge should have no bounds: but good Laertes Will you do this, keep close within your Chamber, Hamlet returned, shall know you are come home: we'll put on those shall praise your excellence, And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together, And wager on your heads, he being remiss, Most generous, and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the Foils? So that with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A Sword unbaited, and in a pass of practice, Requited him for your Father. I will do't, And for that purpose I'll anoint my Sword: I bought an Unction of a Mountebank So mortal, I but dipped a knife in it, Where it draws blood, no Cataplasm so rare, Collected from all Simples that have Virtue Under the Moon, can save the thing from death, That is but scratched withal: I'll touch my point, With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly, It may be death. Let's further think of this, Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape, if this should fail; And that our drift look through our bad performance, 'Twere better not assayed; therefore this Project Should have a back or second, that might hold, If this should blast in proof: Soft, let me see we'll make a solemn wager on your come, I have't: when in your motion you are hot and dry, As make your bowts more violent to the end, And that he calls for drink; I'll have prepared him A Chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venomed stuck, Our purpose may hold there; how sweet Queen. One woe doth tread upon another's heel, So fast they'll follow: your Sister's drowned Laertes. Drowned! O where? There is a Willow grows aslant a Brook, That shows his hore leaves in the glassy stream: There with fantastic Garlands did she come, Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, and long Purples, That liberal Shepherds give a grosser name; But our cold Maids do Dead men's Fingers call them: There on the pendant boughs, her Coronet weeds Clambering to hang; an envious sliver broke, When down the weedy Trophies, and herself, Fell in the weeping Brook, her clothes spread wide, And Mermaidlike, a while they bore her up, Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature Native, and endued Unto that Element: but long it could not be, Till that her garments, heavy with her drink, Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious buy, To muddy death. Alas then, is she drowned? Drowned, drowned. Too much of water hast thou poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbidden my tears: but yet It is our trick, Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will; when these are gone The woman will be out: Adieu my Lord, I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly doubts it.
nodes 2602–2668 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 45 of 55 in this edition
Length
515 words · 710 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.784 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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)
No place indeed ſhould murder Sancturize; Reuenge ſhould haue no bounds: but good Laertes Will you doe this, keepe cloſe within your Chamber, Hamlet return'd, ſhall know you are come home: Wee'l put on thoſe ſhall praiſe your excellence, And ſet a double varniſh on the fame The Frenchman gaue you, bring you in fine together, And wager on your heads, he being remiſſe, Moſt generous, and free from all contriuing, Will not peruſe the Foiles? So that with eaſe, Or with a little ſhuffling, you may chooſe A Sword vnbaited, and in a paſſe of practice, Requit him for your Father. I will doo't, And for that purpoſe Ile annoint my Sword: I bought an Vnction of a Mountebanke So mortall, I but dipt a knife in it, Where it drawes blood, no Cataplaſme ſo rare, Collected from all Simples that haue Vertue Vnder the Moone, can ſaue the thing from death, That is but ſcratcht withall: Ile touch my point, With this contagion, that if I gall him ſlightly, It may be death. Let's further thinke of this, Weigh what conuenience both of time and meanes May fit vs to our ſhape, if this ſhould faile; And that our drift looke through our bad performance, 'Twere better not aſſaid; therefore this Proiect Should haue a backe or ſecond, that might hold, If this ſhould blaſt in proofe: Soft, let me ſee Wee'l make a ſolemne wager on your commings, I ha't: when in your motion you are hot and dry, As make your bowts more violent to the end, And that he cals for drinke; Ile haue prepar'd him A Challice for the nonce; whereon but ſipping, If he by chance eſcape your venom'd ſtuck, Our purpoſe may hold there; how ſweet Queene. One woe doth tread vpon anothers heele, So faſt they'l follow: your Siſter's drown'd Laertes. Drown'd! O where? There is a Willow growes aſlant a Brooke, That ſhewes his hore leaues in the glaſſie ſtreame: There with fantaſticke Garlands did ſhe come, Of Crow-ſlowers, Nettles, Dayſies, and long Purples, That liberall Shepheards giue a groſſer name; But our cold Maids doe Dead Mens Fingers call them: There on the pendant boughes, her Coronet weeds Clambring to hang; an enuious ſliuer broke, When downe the weedy Trophies, and her ſelfe, Fell in the weeping Brooke, her cloathes ſpred wide, And Mermaid-like, a while they bore her vp, Which time ſhe chaunted ſnatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her owne diſtreſſe, Or like a creature Natiue, and indued Vnto that Element: but long it could not be, Till that her garments, heauy with her drinke, Pul'd the poore wretch from her melodious buy, To muddy death. Alas then, is ſhe drown'd? Drown'd, drown'd. Too much of water haſt thou poore Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my teares: but yet It is our tricke, Nature her cuſtome holds, Let ſhame ſay what it will; when theſe are gone The woman will be out: Adue my Lord, I haue a ſpeech of fire, that faine would blaze, But that this folly doubts it.