Ford, John · published 1633 · first performed or written 1630 [c.1630-1633] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 475 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
But thou, Penthea, Hast many years, I hope, to number yet ere thou canst travel that way. Let the Swan first Be wrapped up in an everlasting darkness, Before the light of nature, chiefly formed For the whole world's delight, feel an Eclipse So universal. Wisdom (look 'ee) Begins to rave:— art thou mad too, antiquity Since I was first a wife, I might have been Mother to many pretty prattling Babes: They would have smiled when I smiled; and, for certain, I should have cried when they cried;— truly brother, My father would have picked me out a husband, And then my little ones had been no bastards: But 'tis too late for me to marry now, I am past childbearing; 'tis not my fault. Fall on me, if there be a burning Aetna, And bury me in flames; sweats hot as sulphur, Boil through my pores: affliction hath in store No torture like to this. Behold a patience Lay by thy whining grey dissimulation, Do something worth a Chronicle; show justice Upon the Author of this mischief; dig out The jealousies that hatched this thraldom first With thine own poniard: every antic rapture Can roar as thine does. Orgilus forbear. Disturb him not, it is a talking motion Provided for my torment: what a fool am I To bawdy passion? ere I'll speak a word I will look on and burst. I loved you once. Thou didst, wronged creature, in despite of malice; For it I love thee even. Spare your hand, Believe me, I'll not hurt it. Pain my heart to Complain not though I wring it hard: I'll kiss it; O 'tis a fine soft palm: hark in thine care, Like whom do I look, prithee? nay, no whispering. Goodness! we had been happy: too much happiness Will make folk proud they say— but that is he; And yet he paid for't home; alas, his heart Is crept into the cabinet of the Princess; We shall have points and bride-laces. Remember When we last gathered Roses in the garden I found my wits, but truly you lost yours: That's He, and still 'tis He. Poor soul, how idly Her fancies guide her tongue. Keep in vexation, And break not into clamour. She has tutored me: Some powerful inspiration checks my laziness: Now let me kiss your hand, grieved beauty. Kiss it. Alack, alack, his lips be wondrous cold; Dear soul, h'as lost his colour: have 'ee seen A straying heart? all crannies, every drop Of blood is turned to an Amethyst, Which married Bachelors hang in their ears. Peace usher her into Elysium: If this be madness, madness is an Oracle. Christalla, Philema, when slept my sister, Her ravings are so wild. Sir, not these ten days. We watch by her continually; beside, We cannot any way pray her to eat.
seed 43: T2 · 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 thou, Penthea, Hast many yeeres, I hope, to number yet E're thou canst trauell that way. Let the Swan first Be wrap'd vp in an euerlasting darknesse, Before the light of nature, chiefly form'd For the whole worlds delight, feele an Ecclipse So vniuersall. Wisdome (looke 'ee) Begins to raue: — art thou mad too, antiquity Since I was first a wife, I might haue beene Mother to many pretty pratling Babes: They would haue smil'd when I smil'd; and, for certaine I should haue cry'd when they cry'd; — truly brother, My father would haue pick'd me out a husband, And then my little one had beene no bastards: But 'tis too late for me to marry now, I am past child-bearing; 'tis not my fault. Fall on me, if there be a burning Etna, And bury me in flames; sweats hot as sulphure, Boyle through my pores: affliction hath in store No torture like to this. Behold a patience Lay by thy whyning gry dissimulation, Doe something worth a Chronicle; shew Iustice Vpon the Author of this mischiefe; dig out The Iealousies that hatch'd this thraldome first With thine owne ponyard: euery anticke rpture Can roare as thine does. Orgilus forbeare. Disturbe him not, it is a talking motion Prouided for my torment: what a foole am I To bawdy passion? e're I'le speake a word I will looke on and burst. I lou'd you once. Thou didst, wrong'd creature, in despite of malice; For it I loue thee euen. Spare your hand, Beleeue me, I'le not hurt it. Paine my heart to Complaine not though I wring it hard: I'le kisse it; O 'tis a fine soft palme: harke in thine care, Like whom doe I looke, prehe? nay, no whispering. Goodnesse! we had beene happy: too much happinesse Will make folke proud they say — but that is he; And yet he paid for't home; alas, his heart Is crept into the cabinet of the Princesse; We shall haue points and bridelaces. Remember When we last gather'd Roses in the garden I found my wits, but truly you lost yours: That's He, and still 'tis He. Poore soule, how idely Her fancies guide her tongue. Keepe in vexation, And breake not into clamour. She has tutor'd me: Some powerfull inspiration checks my lazinesse: Now let me kisse your hand, grieu'd beauty. Kisse it. Alacke, alacke, his lips be wondrous cold; Deare soule, h'as lost his colour: haue 'ee seene A straying heart? all crannies, euery drop Of blood is turn'd to an Amethist, Which married Bachelours hang in their eares. Peace vsher her into Elizium: If this be madnesse, madnesse is an Oracle. Christalla, Philema, when slept my sister, Her rauings are so wild. Sir, not these ten dayes. We watch by her continually; besides, We cannot any way pray her to eat.