Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 545 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen? I had most need of Blessing, and Amen stuck in my throat. These deeds must not be thought After these ways: so, it will make us mad. Me thought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more: Macbeth does murder Sleep, the innocent Sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravelled Sleeve of Care, The death of each day's Life, sore Labours Bath, Balm of hurt Minds, great Nature's second Course, Chief nourisher in Life's Feast. What do you mean? Still it cried, Sleep no more to all the House: Glamis hath murdered Sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more: Macbeth shall sleep no more. Who was it, that thus cried? why worthy Thane, You do unbend your Noble strength, to think So braine-sickly of things: Go get some Water, And wash this filthy Witness from your Hand. Why did you bring these Daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them, and smear The sleepy Grooms with blood. I'll go no more: I am afraid, to think what I have done: Look on't again, I dare not. Infirm of purpose: Give me the Daggers: the sleeping, and the dead, Are but as Pictures: 'tis the Eye of Childhood, That fears a painted Devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the Faces of the Grooms withal, For it must seem their Gild. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appalls me? What Hands are here? hah: they pluck out mine Eyes. Will all great Neptune's Ocean wash this blood Clean from my Hand? no: this my Hand will rather The multitudinous Seas incarnardine, Making the Green one, Red. My Hands are of your colour: but I shame To wear a Heart so white. I hear a knocking at the South entry: Retire we to our Chamber: A little Water clears us of this deed. How easy is it then? your Constancy Hath left you unattended. Hark, more knocking. Get on your Nightgown, lest occasion call us, And show us to be Watchers: be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. To know my deed, 'Twere best not know myself. Wake Duncan with thy knocking: I would thou couldst. Here's a knocking indeed: if a man were Porter of Hell Gate, he should have old turning the Key. Knock. Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there i' th' name of Belzebub? Here's a Farmer, that hanged himself on th' expectation of Plenty: Come in time, have Napkins enough about you, here you'll sweat for't. Knock. Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Devil's Name? Faith here's an Equivocator, that could swear in both the Scales against either Scale, who committed Treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to Heaven: oh come in, Equivocator. Knock. Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? I'faith here's an English Tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French Hose: Come in Taylor, here you may roast your Goose. Knock. Knock, Knock. Never at quiet: What are you? but this place is too cold for Hell. I'll Devill-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all Professions, that go the Primrose way to th' everlasting Bonfire. Knock. Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter.
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)
But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen? I had moſt need of Bleſſing, and Amen ſtuck in my throat. Theſe deeds muſt not be thought After theſe wayes: ſo, it will make vs mad. Me thought I heard a voyce cry, Sleep no more: Macbeth does murther Sleepe, the innocent Sleepe, Sleepe that knits vp the rauel'd Sleeue of Care, The death of each dayes Life, ſore Labors Bath, Balme of hurt Mindes, great Natures ſecond Courſe, Chiefe nouriſher in Life's Feaſt. What doe you meane? Still it cry'd, Sleepe no more to all the Houſe: Glamis hath murther'd Sleepe, and therefore Cawdor Shall ſleepe no more: Macbeth ſhall ſleepe no more. Who was it, that thus cry'd? why worthy Thane, You doe vnbend your Noble ſtrength, to thinke So braine-ſickly of things: Goe get ſome Water, And waſh this filthie Witneſſe from your Hand. Why did you bring theſe Daggers from the place? They muſt lye there: goe carry them, and ſmeare The ſleepie Groomes with blood. Ile goe no more: I am afraid, to thinke what I haue done: Looke on't againe, I dare not. Infirme of purpoſe: Giue me the Daggers: the ſleeping, and the dead, Are but as Pictures: 'tis the Eye of Child-hood, That feares a painted Deuill. If he doe bleed, Ile guild the Faces of the Groomes withall, For it muſt ſeeme their Guilt. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when euery noyſe appalls me? What Hands are here? hah: they pluck out mine Eyes. Will all great Neptunes Ocean waſh this blood Cleane from my Hand? no: this my Hand will rather The multitudinous Seas incarnardine, Making the Greene one, Red. My Hands are of your colour: but I ſhame To weare a Heart ſo white. I heare a knocking at the South entry: Retyre we to our Chamber: A little Water cleares vs of this deed. How eaſie is it then? your Conſtancie Hath left you vnattended. Hearke, more knocking. Get on your Night-Gowne, leaſt occaſion call vs, And ſhew vs to be Watchers: be not loſt So poorely in your thoughts. To know my deed, 'Twere beſt not know my ſelfe. Wake Duncan with thy knocking: I would thou could'ſt. Here's a knocking indeede: if a man were Porter of Hell Gate, hee ſhould haue old turning the Key. Knock. Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there i' th' name of Belzebub? Here's a Farmer, that hang'd himſelfe on th' expectation of Plentie: Come in time, haue Napkins enow about you, here you'le ſweat for't. Knock. Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Deuils Name? Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could ſweare in both the Scales againſt eyther Scale, who committed Treaſon enough for Gods ſake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen: oh come in, Equiuocator. Knock. Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? 'Faith here's an Engliſh Taylor come hither, for ſtealing out of a French Hoſe: Come in Taylor, here you may roſt your Gooſe. Knock. Knock, Knock. Neuer at quiet: What are you? but this place is too cold for Hell. Ile Deuill-Porter it no further: I had thought to haue let in ſome of all Profeſſions, that goe the Primroſe way to th' euerlaſting Bonfire. Knock. Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter.