Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1602 [1602-1603] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.83 · 461 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
I was about to tell thee, when my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector, or my Father should perceive me: I have (as when the Sun doth light a-scorne) Buried this sigh, in wrinkle of a smile: But sorrow, that is couched in seeming gladness, Is like that mirth, Fate turns to sudden sadness. And her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's, well go too, there were no more comparison between the Women. But for my part she is my Kinswoman, I would not (as they term it) praise it, but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday as I did: I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit, but— Oh Pandarus! I tell thee Pandarus; When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drowned: Reply not in how many Fathoms deep They lie endrenched. I tell thee, I am mad In Cressida's love. Thou answerest she is Fair, Powr'st in the open Ulcer of my heart, Her Eyes, her Hair, her Cheek, her Gate, her Voice, Handlest in thy discourse. O that her Hand (In whose comparison, all whites are Ink) Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure, The Cignets down is harsh, and spirit of Sense Hard as the palm of Ploughman. This thou tell'st me; As true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her: But saying thus, instead of Oil and Balm, Thou lai'st in every gash that love hath given me, The Knife that made it. I speak no more than truth. Thou dost not speak so much. Faith, I'll not meddle in't: Let her be as she is, if she be fair, 'tis the better for her: and she be not, she has the mends in her own hands. Good Pandarus: How now Pandarus? I have had my Labour for my travel, ill thought on of her, and ill thought on of you: Gone between and between, but small thankes for my labour. What art thou angry Pandarus? what with me? Because she's Kin to me, therefore she's not so fair as Helen, and she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday, as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not and she were a Black-a-Moore, 'tis all one to me. Say I she is not fair? I do not care whether you do or no. she's a Fool to stay behind her Father: Let her to the Greeks, and so I'll tell her the next time I see her: for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more i' th' matter. Pandarus? Not I Sweet Pandarus. Pray you speak no more to me, I will leave all as I found it, and there an end.
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 was about to tell thee, when my heart, As wedged with a ſigh, would riue in twaine, Leaſt Hector, or my Father ſhould perceiue me: I haue (as when the Sunne doth light a-ſcorne) Buried this ſigh, in wrinkle of a ſmile: But ſorrow, that is couch'd in ſeeming gladneſſe, Is like that mirth, Fate turnes to ſudden ſadneſſe. And her haire were not ſomewhat darker then Helens, well go too, there were no more compariſon betweene the Women. But for my part ſhe is my Kinſwoman, I would not (as they tearme it) praiſe it, but I wold ſome-body had heard her talke yeſterday as I did: I will not diſpraiſe your ſiſter Caſſandra's wit, but— Oh Pandarus! I tell thee Pandarus; When I doe tell thee, there my hopes lye drown'd: Reply not in how many Fadomes deepe They lye indrench'd. I tell thee, I am mad In Creſſids loue. Thou anſwer'ſt ſhe is Faire, Powr'ſt in the open Vlcer of my heart, Her Eyes, her Haire, her Cheeke, her Gate, her Voice, Handleſt in thy diſcourſe. O that her Hand (In whoſe compariſon, all whites are Inke) Writing their owne reproach; to whoſe ſoft ſeizure, The Cignets Downe is harſh, and ſpirit of Senſe Hard as the palme of Plough-man. This thou tel'ſt me; As true thou tel'ſt me, when I ſay I loue her: But ſaying thus, inſtead of Oyle and Balme, Thou lai'ſt in euery gaſh that loue hath giuen me, The Knife that made it. I ſpeake no more then truth. Thou do'ſt not ſpeake ſo much. Faith, Ile not meddle in't: Let her be as ſhee is, if ſhe be faire, 'tis the better for her: and ſhe be not, ſhe ha's the mends in her owne hands. Good Pandarus: How now Pandarus? I haue had my Labour for my trauell, ill thought on of her, and ill thought on of you: Gone betweene and betweene, but ſmall thankes for my labour. What art thou angry Pandarus? what with me? Becauſe ſhe's Kinne to me, therefore ſhee's not ſo faire as Helen, and ſhe were not kin to me, ſhe would be as faire on Friday, as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not and ſhe were a Black-a-Moore, 'tis all one to me. Say I ſhe is not faire? I doe not care whether you doe or no. Shee's a Foole to ſtay behinde her Father: Let her to the Greeks, and ſo Ile tell her the next time I ſee her: for my part, Ile meddle nor make no more i' th' matter. Pandarus? Not I. Sweete Pandarus. Pray you ſpeake no more to me, I will leaue all as I found it, and there an end.