Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1605 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds · 512 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
I have received a hurt: Fellow me Lady; Turn out that eyeless Villain: throw this Slave Upon the Dunghill: Regan, I bleed apace, Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm. Yet better thus, and known to be contemned, Then still contemned and flattered, to be worst: The lowest, and most dejected thing of Fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear: The lamentable change is from the best, The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace: The Wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst, Owes nothing to thy blasts. But who comes here? My Father poorly led? World, World, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age. O my good Lord, I have been your Tenant, And your Father's Tenant, these fourscore years. Away, get thee away: good Friend be gone, Thy comforts can do me no good at all, thou, they may hurt. You cannot see your way. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes: I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen, Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our Commodities. Oh dear Son Edgar, The food of thy abused Father's wrath: Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I'd say I had eyes again. How now? who's there? O Gods! Who is't can say I am at the worst? I am worse than ere I was. 'Tis poor mad Tom. And worse I may be yet: the worst is not, So long as we can say this is the worst. Fellow, where goest? Is it a Beggar-man? Madman, and beggar too. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I' th' last night's storm, I such a fellow saw; Which made me think a Man, a Worm. My Son Came then into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce Friends with him. I have heard more since: As Flies to wanton Boys, are we to th' Gods, They kill us for their sport. How should this be? Bad is the Trade that must play Fool to sorrow, Ang'ring itself, and others. Bless thee Master. Is that the naked Fellow? I, my Lord. Get thee away: If for my sake Thou wilt o'ertake us hence a mile or twain I' th' way toward Dover, do it for ancient love, And bring some covering for this naked Soul, Which I'll entreat to lead me. Alack sir, he is mad. 'Tis the time's plague, When Madmen lead the blind: Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure: Above the rest, be gone. He bring him the best Apparel that I have Come on't, what will. Sirrah, naked fellow. Poor Tom's a cold. I cannot daub it further. Come hither fellow. And yet I must: Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed. knowst thou the way to Dover? Both style, and gate; Horseway, and footpath: poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits. Bless thee good man's son, from the foul Fiend.
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)
I haue receiu'd a hurt: Follow me Lady; Turne out that eyeleſſe Villaine: throw this Slaue Vpon the Dunghill: Regan, I bleed apace, Vntimely comes this hurt. Giue me your arme. Yet better thus, and knowne to be contemn'd, Then ſtill contemn'd and flatter'd, to be worſt: The loweſt, and moſt deiected thing of Fortune, Stands ſtill in eſperance, liues not in feare: The lamentable change is from the beſt, The worſt returnes to laughter. Welcome then, Thou vnſubſtantiall ayre that I embrace: The Wretch that thou haſt blowne vnto the worſt, Owes nothing to thy blaſts. But who comes heere? My Father poorely led? World, World, O world! But that thy ſtrange mutations make vs hate thee, Life would not yeelde to age. O my good Lord, I haue bene your Tenant, And your Fathers Tenant, theſe foureſcore yeares. Away, get thee away: good Friend be gone, Thy comforts can do me no good at all, Thee, they may hurt. You cannot ſee your way. I haue no way, and therefore want no eyes: I ſtumbled when I ſaw. Full oft 'tis ſeene, Our meanes ſecure vs, and our meere defects Proue our Commodities. Oh deere Sonne Edgar, The food of thy abuſed Fathers wrath: Might I but liue to ſee thee in my touch, I'ld ſay I had eyes againe. How now? who's there? O Gods! Who is't can ſay I am at the worſt? I am worſe then ere I was. 'Tis poore mad Tom. And worſe I may be yet: the worſt is not, So long as we can ſay this is the worſt. Fellow, where goeſt? Is it a Beggar-man? Madman, and beggar too. He has ſome reaſon, elſe he could not beg. I' th' laſt nights ſtorme, I ſuch a fellow ſaw; Which made me thinke a Man, a Worme. My Sonne Came then into my minde, and yet my minde Was then ſcarſe Friends with him. I haue heard more ſince: As Flies to wanton Boyes, are we to th' Gods, They kill vs for their ſport. How ſhould this be? Bad is the Trade that muſt play Foole to ſorrow, Ang'ring it ſelfe, and others. Bleſſe thee Maſter. Is that the naked Fellow? I, my Lord. Get thee away: If for my ſake Thou wilt ore-take vs hence a mile or twaine I' th' way toward Douer, do it for ancient loue, And bring ſome couering for this naked Soule, Which Ile intreate to leade me. Alacke ſir, he is mad. 'Tis the times plague, When Madmen leade the blinde: Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleaſure: Aboue the reſt, be gone. He bring him the beſt Parrell that I haue Come on't, what will. Sirrah, naked fellow. Poore Tom's a cold. I cannot daub it further. Come hither fellow. And yet I muſt: Bleſſe thy ſweete eyes, they bleede. Know'ſt thou the way to Douer? Both ſtyle, and gate; Horſeway, and foot-path: poore Tom hath bin ſcarr'd out of his good wits. Bleſſe thee good mans ſonne, from the foule Fiend.