Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1605 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T26 Devils, hell and fiends · 459 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T26: devil, hell, devils, sure, soul, fiend, sr, wife, lord, men.
Thou wert better in a Grave, then to answer with thy uncovered body, this extremity of the Skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the Worm no Silk; the Beast, no Hide; the Sheep, no Wool; the Cat, no perfume. Ha'? Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man, is no more but such a poor, bare, forked Animal as thou art. Off, off you Lend: Come, unbutton here. Prithee Nuncle be contented, 'tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild Field, were like an old Lechers heart, a small spark, all the rest on's body, cold: Look, here comes a walking fire. This is the foul Flibbertigibbet; he begins at Curfew, and walks at first Cock: He gives the Web and the Pin, squints the eye, and makes the Hare-lippe; Mildews the white Wheat, and hurts the poor Creature of earth. Swithold footed thrice the old, He met the Nightmare, and her ninefold; Bid her a-light, and her trothplight, And aroynt thee Witch, aroynt thee. How fares your Grace? What's he? Who's 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-Neut, 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-Dogge; drinks the green Mantle of the standing Pool: who is whipped from Tything to Tything, and stocked, punished, and imprisoned: who hath three Suits to his back, six shirts to his body: Horse to ride, and weapon to wear: But Mice, and Rats, and such small Dear, Have been Tom's food, for seven long year: Beware my Follower. Peace Smulkin, peace thou Fiend. What, hath your Grace no better company? The Prince of Darkness is a Gentleman. Modo he's called, and Mahu. Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is grown so vild, that it doth hate what gets it. Poor Tom's a cold. Go in with me; my duty cannot suffer T' 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 fire, and food is ready. First let me talk with this Philosopher, What is the cause of Thunder? Good my Lord take his offer, Go into th' house. I'll talk a word with this same 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 once more to go my Lord, His wits begin t' unsettle.
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)
Thou wert better in a Graue, then to anſwere with thy vncouer'd body, this extremitie of the Skies. Is man no more then this? Conſider him well. Thou ow'ſt the Worme no Silke; the Beaſt, no Hide; the Sheepe, no Wooll; the Cat, no perfume. Ha? Here's three on's are ſophiſticated. Thou art the thing it ſelfe; vnaccommodated man▪ is no more but ſuch a poore, bare, forked Animall as thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, vnbutton heere. Prythee Nunckle be contented, 'tis a naughtie night to ſwimme in. Now a little fire in a wilde Field, were like an old Letchers heart, a ſmall ſpark, all the reſt on's body, cold: Looke, heere comes a walking fire. This is the foule Flibbertigibbet; hee begins at Curfew, and walkes at firſt Cocke: Hee giues the Web and the Pin, ſquints the eye, and makes the Hare-lippe; Mildewes the white Wheate, and hurts the poore Creature of earth. Swithold footed thrice the old, He met the Night-Mare, and her nine-fold; Bid her a-light, and her troth-plight, And aroynt thee Witch, aroynt thee. How fares your Grace? What's he? Who's there? What is't you ſeeke? What are you there? Your Names? Poore Tom, that eates the ſwimming Frog, the Toad, the Tod-pole, the wall-Neut, and the water: that in the furie of his heart, when the foule Fiend rages, eats Cow-dung for Sallets; ſwallowes the old Rat, and the ditch-Dogge; drinkes the green Mantle of the ſtanding Poole: who is whipt from Tything to Tything, and ſtockt, puniſh'd, and impriſon'd: who hath three Suites to his backe, ſixe ſhirts to his body: Horſe to ride, and weapon to weare: But Mice, and Rats, and ſuch ſmall Deare, Haue bin Toms food, for ſeuen long yeare: Beware my Follower. Peace Smulkin, peace thou Fiend. What, hath your Grace no better company? The Prince of Darkeneſſe is a Gentleman. Modo he's call'd, and Mahu. Our fleſh and blood, my Lord, is growne ſo vilde, that it doth hate what gets it. Poore Tom's a cold. Go in with me; my duty cannot ſuffer T' obey in all your daughters hard commands: Though their Iniunction be to barre my doores, And let this Tyrannous night take hold vpon you, Yet haue I ventured to come ſeeke you out, And bring you where both fire, and food is ready. Firſt let me talke with this Philoſopher, What is the cauſe of Thunder? Good my Lord take his offer, Go into th' houſe. Ile talke a word with this ſame lerned Theban: What is your ſtudy? How to preuent the Fiend, and to kill Vermine. Let me aske you one word in priuate. Importune him once more to go my Lord, His wits begin t' vnſettle.