Ford, John · published 1633 · first performed or written 1630 [c.1630-1633] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T14 Royal love, favour and dynastic relation · 497 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
They are not.— Peace Calantha is the Princess, the king's daughter, Sole heir of Sparta— Me most miserable, Do I now love thee? for my injurys Revenge thyself with bravery, and gossip My treasons to the king's ears. Do; Calantha Knows it not yet, nor Prophilus my nearest. Suppose you were contracted to her, would it not Split even your very soul to see her father Snatch her out of your arms against her will, And force her on the Prince of Argos? Trouble not The fountains of mine eyes with thine own story, I sweat in blood for't. We are reconciled: Alas, Sir, being children, but two branches Of one stock, 'tis not fit we should divide: Have comfort, you may find it. Yes in thee: Only in thee Penthea mine. If sorrows Have not too much dulled my infected brain, I'll cheer invention for an active strain. Mad man! why have I wronged a maid so excellent? I can forbear no longer: more, I will not; Keep off your hands, or fall upon my point: Patience is tired, for like a slow-paced Ass Ye ride my easy nature, and proclaim My sloth to vengeance, a reproach and property. The meaning of this rudeness. he's distracted. O my grieved Lord. Sweet Lady come not near him; He holds his perilous weapon in his hand To prick 'a cares not whom, nor where,— see, see, see. My birth is noble, though the popular blast Of vanity, as giddy as thy youth, Hath reared thy name up to bestride a cloud, Or progress in the Chariot of the Sun; I am no clod of trade, to lackey pride, Nor like your slave of expectation wait The bawdy hinges of your doors, or whistle For mystical conveyance to your bed-sports. Fine humours, they become him. How 'a stares, Struts, puffs, and sweats: most admirable lunacy? But that I may conceive the spirit of wine Has took possession of your soberer custom, I'd say you were unmannerly. Dear brother. Unmannerly— Mew Kitling— smooth formality Is usher to the rankness of the blood, But Impudence bears up the train: Indeed, sir, Your fiery metal, or your springal blaze Of huge renown, is no sufficient Royalty To print upon my forehead the scorn Cuckold. His jealousy has robbed him of his wits, 'A talks 'a knows not what. Yes, and 'a knows To whom 'a talks; to one that franks his lust In Swine-security of bestial incest. Hah devil. I will hallo't, though I blush more To name the filthiness, than thou to act it. Monster! Sir by our friendship. By our bloods, Will you quite both undo us, Brother? Out on him, These are his megrims, firks and melancholies. Well said, old Touchhole. Kick him out at doors. With favour let me speak.— My Lord? what slackness In my obedience hath deserved this rage? Except humility and sin lent duty Have drawn on your unquiet, my simplicity ne'er studied your vexation.
seed 43: T14 · seed 44: T9 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
They are not.—Peace Calantha is the Princesse, the Kings daughter, Sol heire of Sparta — Me most miserable, Doe I now loue thee? for my iniuries Reuenge thy selfe with brauery, and gossip My treasons to the Kings eares. Doe; Calant Knowes it not yet, nor Prophilus my nearest. Suppose you were contracted to her, would it not Split euen your very soule to see her father Snatch her out of your armes against her will, And force her on the Prince of Argos? Trouble not The fountaines of mine eyes with thine owne story, I sweat in blood for't. We are reconcil'd: Alas, Sir, being children, but two branches Of one stocke, 'tis not fit we should diuide: Haue comfort, you may find it. Yes in thee: Onely in thee Penthea mine. If sorrowes Haue not too much dul'd my infected braine, I'le cheere inuention for an actiue straine. Mad man! why haue I wrong'd a maid so excellent? I can forbeare no longer: more, I will not; Keepe off your hands, or fall vpon my point: Patience is tyr'd, for like a slow-pac'd Asse Ye ride my easie nature, and proclaime My sloth to vengeance, a reproach and property. The meaning of this rudenesse. Hee's distracted. O my grieu'd Lord. Sweet Lady come not neere him He holds his perilous weapon in his hand To pricke 'a cares not whom, nor where,— see, see, see. My birth is noble, though the popular blast Of vanity, as giddy as thy youth, Hath rear'd thy name vp to bestride a cloud, Or progresse in the Chariot of the Sunne; I am no clod of trade, to lackey pride, Nor like your slaue of expectation wait The baudy hinges of your dores, or whist For mysticall conueyance to your bed-sports. Fine humor, they become him. How 'a stares, Struts, puffes, and sweats: most admirable lunacy? But that I may conceiue the spirit of wine Has tooke possession of your soberer custome, I'de say you were vnmannerly. Deare brother. Vnmannerly — Mew Kitling— smooth formality Is vsher to the ranknesse of the blood, But Impudence beares vp the traine: Indeed, sir, Your fiery mettall, or your springall blaze Of huge renowne, is no sufficient Royalty To print vpon my forehead the scorne Cuckold. His Iealousie has rob'd him of his wits, 'A talkes 'a knowes not what. Yes, and 'a knowes To whom 'a talkes; to one that franks his lust In Swine-security of bestiall incest. Hah deuill. I will hallo't, though I blush more To name the filthinesse, than thou to act it. Monster! Sir by our friendship. By our bloods, Will you quite both vndoe vs, Brother? Out on him, These are his megrims, firks and melancholies. Well said, old Touch-hole. Kick him out at dores. With fauour let me speake.— My Lord? what slacknesse In my obedience hath deseru'd this rage? Except humility and sin lent duty Haue drawne on your vnquiet, my simplicity Ne're studied your vexation.