Shakespeare, William / Wilkins, George · published 1609 · first performed or written 1608 [1606-1608] (Annals) romance · King's Men · Globe unassigned nearest T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
Now sleep yslacked hath the rout, No din but snores about the house, Made louder by the orefed breast, Of this most pompous marriage Feast: The Cat with eyen of burning coal, Now coutches from the mouse's hole; And Cricket sing at the Ovens mouth, Are the blyther for their drought: Hymen hath brought the Bride to bed, Where by the loss of maidenhead, A Babe is moulded: be attended, And Time that is so briefly spent, With your fine fancies quaintly each, What's dumb in show, I'll plain with speech. By many a dearne and painful perch Of Perycles the careful search, By the four opposing Crignes, Which the world together joins, Is made with all due diligence, That horse and sail and high expense, Can steed the quest at last from Tyre: Fame answering the most strange inquire, To'th Court of King Simonides, Are Letters brought, the tenor these: Anti●chus' and his daughter dead, The men of Tyrus, on the head Of Helycanus would set on The Crown of Tyre, but he will none: The mutiny, he there hastes t'oppress, Says to'em, if King Pericles Come not home in twice six Moons, He obedient to their dooms, Will take the Crown: the sum of this, Brought hither to Pentapolis, Yravished the regions round, And every one with claps can sound, Our heir apparent is a King: Who dreamt? who thought of such a thing? Brief he must hence depart to Tyre, His Queen with child, makes her desire, Which who shall cross along to go, Omit we all their dole and woe: Lichorida her Nurse she takes, And so to Sea; their vessel shakes, On Neptune's billow, halfe the flood, Hath their Keel cut: but fortune moved, Varies again, the grisled North Disgorges such a tempest forth, That as a Duck for life that dives, So up and down the poor Ship drives: The Lady shrieks, and wel-a-neare, Does fall in travail with her fear: And what ensues in this fell storm, Shall for itself, itself perform: I nill relate, action may Conveniently the rest convey; Which might not? what by me is told, In your imagination hold: This Stage, the Ship, upon whose Deck The seas tossed Pericles appears to speak. The God of this great Vast, rebuke these surges, Which wash both heaven and hell, and thou that hast Upon the Wind's command, bind them in Brass; Having called them from the deep, o still Thy deafening dreadful thunders, gently quench Thy nimble sulphirous flashes: o How Lychorida! How does my Queen? then storm venomously, Wilt thou speat all thyself? the seaman's Whistle Is as a whisper in the ears of death, Unheard Lychorida? Lucina, oh! Divinest patrionesse, and my wife gentle To those that cry by night, convey thy deity Aboard our dancing Boat make swift the pangs Of my Queen's travails? now Lychorida. here is a thing too young for such a place, Who if it had conceit, would die, as I am like to do: Take in your arms this piece of your dead Queen.
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)
Now sleepe y slacked hath the rout, No din but snores about the house, Made louder by the orefed breast, Of this most pompous maryage Feast: The Catte with eyne of burning cole, Now coutches from the Mouses ole; And Cricket sing at the Ouens mouth, Are the blyther for their drouth: Hymen hath brought the Bride to bed, Whereby the lose of may denhead, A Babe is moulded: be attent, And Time that is so briefly spent, With your fine fancies quaintly each, What's dumbe in shew, I'le plaine with speach. By many a dearne and painefull pearch Of Perycles the carefull search, By the ower opposing Crignes, Which the world togeather ioynes, Is made with all due diligence, That horse and sayle and hie expence, Can steed the quest at last from Tyre: Fame answering the most strange enquire, To'th Court of King Symonides, Are Letters brought, the tenour these: Antichus and his daughter dead, The men of Tyrus, on the head Of Helycanus would set on The Crowne of Tyre, bt he will none: The mutanie, hee there hastes t'oppresse, Sayes to'em, if King Pericles Come not home in twise sixe Moones, He obedient to their doomes, Will take the Crowne: the summe of this, Brought hither to Penlapolis, Irany shed the regions round, And euery one with claps can ound, Our heyre apparant is a King: Who dreampt? who thought of such a thing? Briefe he must hence depart to Tyre, His Queene with child, makes her desire, Which who shall crosse along to goe, Omit we all their dole and woe: her Nurse she takes, And so to Sea; their vessell shakes, On Neptune billow, halfe the flood, Hath their Keele cut: but fortune mou'd, Varies againe, the grisled North Disgorges such a tempest forth, That as a Ducke for life that diues, So vp and downe the pooe Ship driues: The Lady shreekes, and wel-a-neare, Do's fall in trauayle with her feare: And what ensues in this fell storme, Shal for it selfe, it selfe performe: I nll relate, action may Conueniently the rest conuay; Which might not? what by me is told, In your imagination hold: This Stage, the Ship, vpon whose Decke The seas tost Pericles appeares to speake. The God of this great Vast, rebuke these surges, Which wash both heauen and hell, and thou that hast Vpon the Windes commaund, bind them in Brasse; Hauing call'd them from the deepe, ô still Thy deanng dreadfull thunders gently quench Thy ble sulphirous flashes: ô How Lychorida! How does my Queene then? storme venomously, Wilt thou seat all thy selfe? the sea-mans Whistle Is as a whiper in the eares of death, Vnheard Lyhria? , oh! Diuinest patrionesse, and my wife gentle To those that cry by night▪ conuey thy deitie Aboard our dauncing Boat make swift the pangues Of my Queenes trauayles? now Lychori. Heere is a thing too young for such a place, Who if it had conceit, would die, as I am like to doe: Take in your armes this peece of your dead Queene.