Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1610 [c.1610-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 521 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
Come, poor babe; I have heard (but not believed) the Spirits o' th' dead May walk again: if such thing be, thy Mother Appeared to me last night: for ne'er was dream So like a waking. To me comes a creature, Sometimes her head on one side, some another, I never saw a vessel of like sorrow So filled, and so becoming: in pure white Robes Like very sanctity she did approach My Cabin where I lay: thrice bowed before me, And (gasping to begin some speech) her eyes Became two spouts; the fury spent, anon Did this break from her. Good Antigonus, Since Fate (against thy better disposition) Hath made thy person for the Thower-out Of my poor babe, according to thine oath, Places remote enough are in Bohemia, There weep, and leave it crying: and for the babe Is counted lost for ever, Perdita I prithee call't: For this ungentle business Put on thee, by my Lord, thou ne'er shalt see Thy Wife Paulina more: and so, with shrieks She melted into Air. Affrighted much, I did in time collect myself, and thought This was so, and no slumber: Dreams, are toys, Yet for this once, yea superstitiously, I will be squared by this. I do believe Hermione hath suffered death, and that Apollo would (this being indeed the issue Of King Polixenes) it should here be laid (Either for life, or death) upon the earth Of its right Father. Blossom, speed thee well, There lie, and there thy character: there these, Which may if Fortune please, both breed thee (pretty) And still rest thine. The storm begins, poor wretch, That for thy mother's fault, art thus exposed To loss, and what may follow. Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds: and most accursed am I To be by oath enjoined to this. Farewell, The day frowns more and more: thou'rt like to have A lullaby too rough: I never saw The heavens so dim, by day. A savage clamour? Well may I get aboard: This is the Chase, I am gone for ever. I would there were no age between ten and three and twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest: for there is nothing (in the between) but getting wenches with child, wronging the Auncientry, stealing, fight, hark you now: would any but these boylde-braines of nineteen, and two and twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best Sheep, which I fear the Wolf will sooner find than the Master; if any where I have them, 'tis by the seaside, brouzing of ivy. Good-luck (and't be thy will) what have we here? Mercy on's, a Barn? A very pretty barn; A boy, or a Child I wonder? (A pretty one, a very pretty one) sure some Escape; Though I am not bookish, yet I can read Waiting-Gentlewoman in the escape: this has been some staire-worke, some Trunke-worke, some behinde-doore work: they were warmer that got this, than the poor Thing is here. I'll take it up for pity, yet I'll tarry till my son come: he hallowed but even now. Whoa-ho-hoa.
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)
Come, poore babe; I haue heard (but not beleeu'd) the Spirits o' th' dead May walke againe: if ſuch thing be, thy Mother Appear'd to me laſt night: for ne're was dreame So like a waking. To me comes a creature, Sometimes her head on one ſide, ſome another, I neuer ſaw a veſſell of like ſorrow So fill'd, and ſo becomming: in pure white Robes Like very ſanctity ſhe did approach My Cabine where I lay: thrice bow'd before me, And (gaſping to begin ſome ſpeech) her eyes Became two ſpouts; the furie ſpent, anon Did this breake from her. Good Antigonus, Since Fate (againſt thy better diſpoſition) Hath made thy perſon for the Thower-out Of my poore babe, according to thine oath, Places remote enough are in Bohemia, There weepe, and leaue it crying: and for the babe Is counted loſt for euer, Perdita I prethee call't: For this vngentle buſineſſe Put on thee, by my Lord, thou ne're ſhalt ſee Thy Wife Paulina more: and ſo, with ſhrickes She melted into Ayre. Affrighted much, I did in time collect my ſelfe, and thought This was ſo, and no ſlumber: Dreames, are toyes, Yet for this once, yea ſuperſtitiouſly, I will be ſquar'd by this. I do beleeue Hermione hath ſuffer'd death, and that Apollo would (this being indeede the iſſue Of King Polixenes) it ſhould heere be laide (Either for life, or death) vpon the earth Of it's right Father. Bloſſome, ſpeed thee well, There lye, and there thy charracter: there theſe, Which may if Fortune pleaſe, both breed thee (pretty) And ſtill reſt thine. The ſtorme beginnes, poore wretch, That for thy mothers fault, art thus expos'd To loſſe, and what may follow. Weepe I cannot, But my heart bleedes: and moſt accurſt am I To be by oath enioyn'd to this. Farewell, The day frownes more and more: thou'rt like to haue A lullabie too rough: I neuer ſaw The heauens ſo dim, by day. A ſauage clamor? Well may I get a-boord: This is the Chace, I am gone for euer. I would there were no age betweene ten and three and twenty, or that youth would ſleep out the reſt: for there is nothing (in the betweene) but getting wenches with childe, wronging the Auncientry, ſtealing, fighting, hearke you now: would any but theſe boylde-braines of nineteene, and two and twenty hunt this weather? They haue ſcarr'd away two of my beſt Sheepe, which I feare the Wolfe will ſooner finde then the Maiſter; if any where I haue them, 'tis by the ſea-ſide, brouzing of Iuy▪ Good-lucke (and't be thy will) what haue we heere? Mercy on's, a Barne? A very pretty barne; A boy, or a Childe I wonder? (A pretty one, a verie prettie one) ſure ſome Scape; Though I am not bookiſh▪ yet I can reade Waiting-Gentlewoman in the ſcape: this has beene ſome ſtaire-worke, ſome Trunke-worke, ſome behinde-doore worke: they were warmer that got this, then the poore Thing is heere. Ile take it vp for pity, yet Ile tarry till my ſonne come: he hallow'd but euen now. Whoa-ho-hoa.