Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 477 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Let our just Censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious Soldiership. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we own: Thoughts speculative, their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue, strokes must arbitrate, Towards which, advance the war. Hang out our Banners on the outward walls, The Cry is still, they come: our Castle's strength Will laugh a Siege to scorn: here let them lie, Till Famine and the Ague eat them up: Were they not forced with those that should be ours, We might have met them darefull, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. What is that noise? It is the cry of women, my good Lord. I have almost forgot the taste of Fears: The time has been, my senses would have cooled To hear a Night-shricke, and my Fell of hair Would at a dismal Treatise rouse, and stir As life were in't. I have supped full with horrors, Direness familiar to my slaughterous thoughts Cannot once start me. Wherefore was that cry? The Queen (my Lord) is dead. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word: To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last Syllable of Recorded time: And all our yesterdays, have lighted Fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief Candle, Life's but a walking Shadow, a poor Player, That struts and frets his hour upon the Stage, And then is heard no more. It is a Tale Told by an Idiot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing. Thou comest to use thy Tongue: thy Story quickly. Gracious my Lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do't. Well, say sir. As I did stand my watch upon the Hill I looked toward Byrnane, and anon me thought The Wood began to move. Liar, and Slave. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so: Within this three Mile may you see it coming. I say, a moving Grove. If thou speakest fhlse, Upon the next Tree shall thou hang alive Till Famine cling thee: If thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much. I pull in Resolution, and begin To doubt th' Equivocation of the Fiend, That lies like truth. Fear not, till Byrnane Wood Do come to Dunsinane, and now a Wood Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, Arm, and out, If this which he avouches, does appear, There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here. I gin to be weary of the Sun, And wish th' estate o' th' world were now undone. Ring the Alarm Bell, blow Wind, come wrack, At least we'll dye with Harness on our back.
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)
Let our iuſt Cenſures Attend the true euent, and put we on Induſtrious Souldierſhip. The time approaches, That will with due deciſion make vs know What we ſhall ſay we haue, and what we owe: Thoughts ſpeculatiue, their vnſure hopes relate, But certaine iſſue, ſtroakes muſt arbitrate, Towards which, aduance the warre. Hang out our Banners on the outward walls, The Cry is ſtill, they come: our Caſtles ſtrength Will laugh a Siedge to ſcorne: Heere let them lye, Till Famine and the Ague eate them vp: Were they not forc'd with thoſe that ſhould be ours, We might haue met them darefull, beard to beard, And beate them backward home. What is that noyſe? It is the cry of women, my good Lord. I haue almoſt forgot the taſte of Feares: The time ha's beene, my ſences would haue cool'd To heare a Night-ſhricke, and my Fell of haire Would at a diſmall Treatiſe rowze, and ſtirre As life were in't. I haue ſupt full with horrors, Direneſſe familiar to my ſlaughterous thoughts Cannot once ſtart me. Wherefore was that cry? The Queene (my Lord) is dead. She ſhould haue dy'de heereafter; There would haue beene a time for ſuch a word: To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow, Creepes in this petty pace from day to day, To the laſt Syllable of Recorded time: And all our yeſterdayes, haue lighted Fooles The way to duſty death. Out, out, breefe Candle, Life's but a walking Shadow, a poore Player, That ſtruts and frets his houre vpon the Stage, And then is heard no more. It is a Tale Told by an Ideot, full of ſound and fury Signifying nothing. Thou com'ſt to vſe thy Tongue: thy Story quickly. Gracious my Lord, I ſhould report that which I ſay I ſaw, But know not how to doo't. Well, ſay ſir. As I did ſtand my watch vpon the Hill I look'd toward Byrnane, and anon me thought The Wood began to moue. Lyar, and Slaue. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not ſo: Within this three Mile may you ſee it comming. I ſay, a mouing Groue. If thou ſpeak'ſt fhlſe, Vpon the next Tree ſhall thou hang aliue Till Famine cling thee: If thy ſpeech be ſooth, I care not if thou doſt for me as much. I pull in Reſolution, and begin To doubt th' Equiuocation of the Fiend, That lies like truth. Feare not, till Byrnane Wood Do come to Dunſinane, and now a Wood Comes toward Dunſinane. Arme, Arme, and out, If this which he auouches, do's appeare, There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here. I' ginne to be a-weary of the Sun, And wiſh th' eſtate o' th' world were now vndon. Ring the Alarum Bell, blow Winde, come wracke, At leaſt wee'l dye with Harneſſe on our backe.