Shakespeare, William · published 1608 · first performed or written 1605 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 481 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
How fares your Grace? What's he? Whose there, what is't you seek? What are you there? your names? Poor Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tod pole, the wall-newt, and the water, that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cowdung for salads, swallows the old rat, and the ditch dog, drinks the green mantle of the standing pool, who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stock-punisht and imprisoned, who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapon to wear. But mice and rats, and such small Deer, Hath been Tom's food for seven long year. Beware my follower, peace snulbug, peace thou fiend. What hath your Grace no better company? The Prince of darkness is a Gentleman, modo he's called and ma hu— Our flesh and blood is grown so vild my Lord, that it doth hate what gets it▪ Poor Toms a cold. Go in with me, my duty cannot suffer to obey in all your daughters hard commands, though their injunction be to bar my doors, and let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, yet have I ventured to come seek you out, and bring you where both food and fire is ready. First let me talk with this Philosopher, What is the cause of thunder? My good Lord take his offer, go into the house. I'll talk a word with this most learned Theban, what is your study? How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin. Let me ask you one word in private. Importune him to go my Lord, his wits begin to unsettle. Canst thou blame him, His daughters seek his death, O that good Kent, He said it would be thus, poor banished man, Thou sayest the King grows mad, i'll tell thee friend I am almost mad myself, I had a son Now outlawed from my blood, a sought my life But lately, very late, I loved him friend No father his son dearer, true to tell thee, The grief hath crazed my wits, What a nights this? I do be seech your Grace. O cry you mercy noble Philosopher, your com-pany. Tom's a cold. In fellow there, in't hovel keep thee warm. Come let's in all. This way my Lord. With him I will keep still, with my Philosopher. Good my Lord soothe him, let him take the fellow. Take him you on. Sirrah come on, go along with us? Come good Athenian. No words, no words, hush. Child Rowland, to the dark town come, His word was still fie fo and fum, I smell the blood of a British man. I will have my revenge ere I depart the house. How my Lord I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, some thing fears me to think of.
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)
How fares your Grace? Whats hee? Whose there, what i'st you seeke? What are you there? your names? Poore Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the tode, the tod pole, the wall-newt, and the water, that in the furie of his heart, when the foule fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets, swallowes the old ratt, and the ditch dogge, drinkes the greene mantle of the standing poole, who is whipt from tithing to tithing, and stock-punisht and imprisoned, who hath had three sutes to his backe, sixe shirts to his bodie, horse to ride, and weapon to weare. But mise and rats, and such small Deere, Hath beene Toms foode for seuen long yeare. Beware my follower, peace snulbug, peace thou fiend. What hath your Grace no better company? The Prince of darkenes is a Gentleman, modo he's caled and ma hu— Our flesh and bloud is growne so vild my Lord, that it doth hate what gets it▪ Poore Toms a cold. Go in with me, my dutie cānot suffer to obay in all your daughters hard commaunds, though their iniunction be to barre my doores, and let this tyranous night take hold vpon you, yet haue I venter'd to come seeke you out, and bring you where both food and fire is readie. First let me talke with this Philosopher, What is the cause of thunder? My good Lord take his offer, goe into the house. Ile talke a word with this most learned Theban, what is your studie? How to preuent the fiend and to kill vermine. Let me aske you one word in priuate. Importune him to goe my Lord, his wits begin to vnsettle. Canst thou blame him, His daughters seeke his death, O that good Kent, He said it would be thus, poore banisht man, Thou sayest the King growes mad, ile tell thee friend I am almost mad my selfe, I had a sonne Now out-lawed from my bloud, a sought my life But lately, very late, I lou'd him friend No father his sonne deerer, true to tell thee, The greefe hath craz'd my wits, What a nights this? I doe be seech your Grace. O crie you mercie noble Philosopher, your com-pany. Toms a cold. In fellow there, in't houell keepe thee warme. Come lets in all. This way my Lord. With him I wil keep stil, with my Philosopher. Good my Lord sooth him, let him take the fellow. Take him you on. Sirah come on, goe along with vs? Come good Athenian. No words, no words, hush. Child Rowland, to the darke towne come, His word was still fy fo and fum, I smell the bloud of a British man. I will haue my reuenge ere I depart the house. How my Lord I may be censured, that nature thus giues way to loyaltie, some thing feares me to thinke of.