Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1601 [1600-1601] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
What's that my Lord? Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' th' earth? E'en so. And smelled so? Puh. E'en so, my Lord. To what base uses we may return Horatio. Why may not Imagination trace the Noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bunghole. 'Twere to consider: to curiously to consider so. No faith, not a jot. But to follow him thither with modesty enough, & likeliehood to lead it; as thus. Alexander died: Alexander was buried: Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make Lome, and why of that Loam (whereto he was converted) might they not stop a Beere-barrell? Imperial Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a Wall, t' expel the winter's flaw. But soft, but soft, aside; here comes the King. The Queen, the Courtiers. Who is that they follow, And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken, The Coarse they follow, did with desperate hand, Fore do it own life; 'twas some Estate. Couch we a while, and mark. What Ceremony else? That is Laertes, a very Noble youth: Mark. What Ceremony else? Her Obsequies have been as far enlarged. As we have warrantis, her death was doubtful, And but that great Command, o're-swaies the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodged, Till the last Trumpet. For charitable prayer, Shards, Flints, and Peebles, should be thrown on her: Yet here she is allowed her Virgin Rites, Her Maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of Bell and Burial. Must there no more be done? No more be done: We should profane the service of the dead, To sing sage Requiem, and such rest to her As to peace-parted Souls. Lay her i' th' earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh, May Violets spring. I tell thee (churlish Priest) A Ministering Angel shall my Sister be, When thou liest howling? What, the fair Ophelia? Sweets, to the sweet farewell. I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlets wife: I thought thy Bridebed to have decked (sweet Maid) And not t' have strewed thy Grave. Oh terrible wooer, Fall ten times treble, on that cursed head Whose wicked deed, thy most Ingenious sense Deprived thee of. Hold off the earth a while, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms: Now pile your dust, upon the quick, and dead, Till of this flat a Mountain you have made, To o'er top old Pelion, or the skyish head Of blue Olympus. What is he, whose griefs Bears such an Emphasis? whose phrase of Sorrow Conjure the wand'ring Stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. The devil take thy soul. Thou prayest not well, I prithee take thy fingers from my throat; Sir though I am not Splenative, and rash, Yet have I something in me dangerous, Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand.
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)
What's that my Lord? Doſt thou thinke Alexander lookt o' this faſhion i' th' earth? E'ene ſo. And ſmelt ſo? Puh. E'ene ſo, my Lord. To what baſe vſes we may returne Horatio. Why may not Imagination trace the Noble duſt of Alexander, till he find it ſtopping a bunghole. 'Twere to conſider: to curiouſly to conſider ſo. No faith, not a iot. But to follow him thether with modeſtie enough, & likeliehood to lead it; as thus. Alexander died: Alexander was buried: Alexander returneth into duſt; the duſt is earth; of earth we make Lome, and why of that Lome (whereto he was conuerted) might they not ſtopp a Beere-barrell? Imperiall Caeſar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might ſtop a hole to keepe the winde away. Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a Wall, t' expell the winters flaw. But ſoft, but ſoft, aſide; heere comes the King. The Queene, the Courtiers. Who is that they follow, And with ſuch maimed rites? This doth betoken, The Coarſe they follow, did with diſperate hand, Fore do it owne life; 'twas ſome Eſtate. Couch we a while, and mark. What Cerimony elſe? That is Laertes, a very Noble youth: Marke. What Cerimony elſe? Her Obſequies haue bin as farre inlarg'd. As we haue warrantis, her death was doubtfull, And but that great Command, o're-ſwaies the order, She ſhould in ground vnſanctified haue lodg'd, Till the laſt Trumpet. For charitable praier, Shardes, Flints, and Peebles, ſhould be throwne on her: Yet heere ſhe is allowed her Virgin Rites, Her Maiden ſtrewments, and the bringing home Of Bell and Buriall. Muſt there no more be done? No more be done: We ſhould prophane the ſeruice of the dead, To ſing ſage Requiem, and ſuch reſt to her As to peace-parted Soules. Lay her i' th' earth, And from her faire and vnpolluted fleſh, May Violets ſpring. I tell thee (churliſh Prieſt) A Miniſtring Angell ſhall my Siſter be, When thou lieſt howling? What, the faire Ophelia? Sweets, to the ſweet farewell. I hop'd thou ſhould'ſt haue bin my Hamlets wife: I thought thy Bride-bed to haue deckt (ſweet Maid) And not t' haue ſtrew'd thy Graue. Oh terrible woer, Fall ten times trebble, on that curſed head Whoſe wicked deed▪ thy moſt Ingenious ſence Depriu'd thee of. Hold off the earth a while, Till I haue caught her once more in mine armes: Now pile your duſt, vpon the quicke, and dead, Till of this flat a Mountaine you haue made, To o're top old Pelion, or the skyiſh head Of blew Olympus. What is he, whoſe griefes Beares ſuch an Emphaſis? whoſe phraſe of Sorrow Coniure the wandring Starres, and makes them ſtand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. The deuill take thy ſoule. Thou prai'ſt not well, I prythee take thy fingers from my throat; Sir though I am not Spleenatiue, and raſh, Yet haue I ſomething in me dangerous, Which let thy wiſeneſſe feare. Away thy hand.