Shakespeare, William · published 1608 · first performed or written 1605 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T52 Prodigals, portions and poor kin · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T52: brother, father, uncle, cousin, son, poor, bread, old, given, master.
This courtesy forbidden thee, shall the Duke instanly know And of that letter to, this seems a fair deserving And must draw me that which my father loses, no less Than all, than younger rises when the old do fall. Here is the place my Lord, good my Lord enter, the tyranny of the open nights too ruff for nature to endure. Let me alone. Good my Lord enter. Wilt break my heart? I had rather break mine own, good my Lord enter. Thou thinkest 'tis much, that this tempestuous storm Invades us to the skin, so 'tis to thee, But where the greater malady is fixed The lesser is scarce felt, thoud'st shun a Bear, But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, thoud'st meet the bear i'th' mouth, when the mind's free The bodies delicate, this tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats their filial ingratitude, Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to't, but I will punish sure, No I will weep no more, in such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril, your old kind father Whose frank heart gave you all, O that way madness lies, Let me shun that, no more of that. Good my Lord enter. Prithee go in thyself, seek thy one ease This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more, but i'll go in, Poor naked wretches, where so ere you are That bide the pelting of this pitiless night, How shall your houselesse heads, and unfed sides, Your looped and windowed raggedness defend you From seasons such as these, O I have ta'en Too little care of this, take physic pomp, Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just. Come not in here Nuncle, her's a spirit, help me, help me. Give me thy hand, whose there. A spirit, he says, his name's poor Tom. What art thou that dost grumble there in the straw, come forth? Away, the fowl fiend follows me, through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind, go to thy cold bed and warm thee. Hast thou given all to thy two daughters, and art thou come to this? Who gives any thing to poor Tom, whom the foul Fiend hath led, through fire, and through ford, and whirli-poole, o'er bog and quagmire, that has laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his pottage, made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inched bridges, to coarse his own shadow for a traitor, bless thy five wits, Toms a cold, bless thee from whirlwinds, starre-blusting, and taking, do poor Tom some charity, whom the soul fiend vexes, there could I have him now, and there, and and there again.
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)
This curtesie forbid thee, shal the Duke instāly know And of that letter to, this seems a faire deseruing And must draw me that which my father looses, no lesse Then all, then yonger rises when the old doe fall. Here is the place my Lord, good my Lord enter, the tyrannie of the open nights too ruffe for nature to indure. Let me alone. Good my Lord enter. Wilt breake my heart? I had rather breake mine owne, good my Lord enter. Thou think'st tis much, that this tempestious storme Inuades vs to the skin, so tis to thee, But where the greater malady is fixt The lesser is scarce felt, thoud'st shun a Beare, But if thy flight lay toward the roring sea, Thoud'st meet the beare it'h mouth, whē the mind's free The bodies delicate, this tempest in my mind Doth from my sences take all feeling else Saue what beates their filiall ingratitude, Is it not as this mouth should teare this hand For lifting food to't, but I will punish sure, No I will weepe no more, in such a night as this! O Regan, Gonorill, your old kind father Whose franke heart gaue you all, O that way madnes lies, Let me shun that, no more of that. Good my Lord enter. Prethe goe in thy selfe, seeke thy one ease This tempest will not giue me leaue to ponder On things would hurt me more, but ile goe in, Poore naked wretches, where so ere you are That bide the pelting of this pittiles night, How shall your house-lesse heads, and vnfed sides, Your loopt and windowed raggednes defend you From seasons such as these, O I haue tane Too little care of this, take physicke pompe, Expose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, And shew the heauens more iust. Come not in here Nunckle, her's a spirit, helpe me, helpe mee. Giue me thy hand, whose there. A spirit, he sayes, his nam's poore Tom. What art thou that dost grumble there in the straw, come forth? Away, the fowle fiend followes me, thorough the sharpe hathorne blowes the cold wind, goe to thy cold bed and warme thee. Hast thou giuen all to thy two daughters, and art thou come to this? Who giues any thing to poore Tom, whome the foule Fiende hath led, through fire, and through foord, and whirli-poole, ore bog and quagmire, that has layd kniues vnder his pillow, and halters in his pue, set ratsbane y his pottage, made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse ouer foure incht bridges, to course his owne shadow for a traytor, blesse thy fiue wits, Toms a cold, blesse thee from whirle-winds, starre-blusting, and taking, doe poore Tom some charitie, whom the soule fiend vexes, there could I haue him now, and there, and and there againe.