Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1609 [c.1608-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men unassigned nearest T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
Where's my Brother? I have sent Clotens Clot-pole down the stream, In Embassy to his Mother; his body's hostage For his return. My ingenuous Instrument, (Hark Polidore) it sounds: but what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark. Is he at home? He went hence even now. What does he mean? Since death of my dearest Mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Should answer solemn Accidents. The matter? Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting Toys, Is jollity for Apes, and grief for Boys. Is Cadwall mad? Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his Arms, Of what we blame him for. The Bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipped from sixteen years of Age, to sixty: To have turned my leaping time into a Crutch, Then have seen this. Oh sweetest, fairest Lily: My Brother wears thee not the one half so well, As when thou grew'st thyself. Oh Melancholy, Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? Find The Ooze, to show what Coast thy sluggish care Mightst easilest harbour in. Thou blessed thing, Ioue knows what man thou mightst have made: but I, Thou dyed'st a most rare Boy, of Melancholy. How found you him? Stark, as you see: Thus smiling, as some Fly had tickled slumber, Not as deaths dart being laughed at: his right Cheek Reposing on a Cushion. Where? O' th' floor: His arms thus leagued, I thought he slept, and put My clouted Brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answered my steps too loud. Why, he but sleeps: If he be gone, he'll make his Grave, a Bed: With female Fairies will his Tomb be haunted, And Worms will not come to thee. With fairest Flowers Whilst Summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack The Flower that's like thy face. Pale-Primrose, nor The azured Harebell, like thy Veins: no, nor The leaf of Eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke would With Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shaming Those rich-left-heyres, that let their Father's lie Without a Monument) bring thee all this, Yea, and furred Moss besides. When Flowers are none To winter-ground thy Coarse— Prithee have done, And do not play in Wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him, And not protract with admiration, what Is now due debt. To ' th' grave. Say, where shall's lay him? By good Euriphile, our Mother. Be't so: And let us (Polidore) though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to ' th' ground As once to our Mother: use like note, and words, Save that Euriphile, must be Fidele. Cadwall, I cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee; For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse Than Priests, and Phanes that lie. we'll speak it then.
seed 43: T37 · seed 44: T36 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Where's my Brother? I haue ſent Clotens Clot-pole downe the ſtreame, In Embaſſie to his Mother; his Bodie's hoſtage For his returne. My ingenuous Inſtrument, (Hearke Polidore) it ſounds: but what occaſion Hath Cadwal now to giue it motion? Hearke. Is he at home? He went hence euen now. What does he meane? Since death of my deer'ſt Mother It did not ſpeake before. All ſolemne things Should anſwer ſolemne Accidents. The matter? Triumphes for nothing, and lamenting Toyes, Is iollity for Apes, and greefe for Boyes. Is Cadwall mad? Looke, heere he comes, And brings the dire occaſion in his Armes, Of what we blame him for. The Bird is dead That we haue made ſo much on. I had rather Haue skipt from ſixteene yeares of Age, to ſixty: To haue turn'd my leaping time into a Crutch, Then haue ſeene this. Oh ſweeteſt, fayreſt Lilly: My Brother weares thee not the one halfe ſo well, As when thou grew'ſt thy ſelfe. Oh Melancholly, Who euer yet could ſound thy bottome? Finde The Ooze, to ſhew what Coaſt thy ſluggiſh care Might'ſt eaſileſt harbour in. Thou bleſſed thing, Ioue knowes what man thou might'ſt haue made: but I, Thou dyed'ſt a moſt rare Boy, of Melancholly. How found you him? Starke, as you ſee: Thus ſmiling, as ſome Fly had tickled ſlumber, Not as deaths dart being laugh'd at: his right Cheeke Repoſing on a Cuſhion. Where? O' th' floore: His armes thus leagu'd, I thought he ſlept, and put My clowted Brogues from off my feete, whoſe rudeneſſe Anſwer'd my ſteps too lowd. Why, he but ſleepes: If he be gone, hee'l make his Graue, a Bed: With female Fayries will his Tombe be haunted, And Wormes will not come to thee. With fayreſt Flowers Whil'ſt Sommer laſts, and I liue heere, Fidele, Ile ſweeten thy ſad graue: thou ſhalt not lacke The Flower that's like thy face. Pale-Primroſe, nor The azur'd Hare-bell, like thy Veines: no, nor The leafe of Eglantine, whom not to ſlander, Out-ſweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke would With Charitable bill (Oh bill ſore ſhaming Thoſe rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lye Without a Monument) bring thee all this, Yea, and furr'd Moſſe beſides. When Flowres are none To winter-ground thy Coarſe— Prythee haue done▪ And do not play in Wench-like words with that Which is ſo ſerious. Let vs bury him, And not protract with admiration, what Is now due debt. To' th' graue. Say, where ſhall's lay him? By good Euriphile, our Mother. Bee't ſo: And let vs (Polidore) though now our voyces Haue got the manniſh cracke, ſing him to' th' ground As once to our Mother: vſe like note, and words, Saue that Euriphile, muſt be Fidele. Cadwall, I cannot ſing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee; For Notes of ſorrow, out of tune, are worſe Then Prieſts, and Phanes that lye. Wee'l ſpeake it then.