Ford, John · published 1633 · first performed or written 1630 [c.1630-1633] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 507 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Why not, pray Sir? The Sovereignty of Kingdoms in their nonage Stooped to desert, not birth: there's as much merit In clearness of affection, as in puddle Of generation: you have conquered Love Even in the loveliest; if I greatly err not, The son of Venus hath bequeathed his quiver To Ithocles his manage, by whose arrows Calantha's breast is opened. Can't be possible? I was myself a piece of suitor once, And forward in preferment too; so forward, That speaking truth, I may without offence (Sir) Presume to whisper, that my hopes, and (hark 'ee) My certainty of marriage stood assured With as firm footing (by your leave) as any's Now at this very instant— but.— 'Tis granted: And for a league of privacy between us, Read o'er my bosom, and partake a secret; The Princess is contracted mine. Still: why not? I now applaud her wisdom; when your kingdom Stands seated in your will secure, and settled, I dare pronounce you will be a just Monarch: Greece must admire, and tremble. Then the sweetness Of so imparadised a comfort, Orgilus, It is to banquet with the gods. The glory Of numerous children, potency of Nobles, Bent knees, hearts paved to tread on. With a friendship So dear, so fast as thine. I am unfitting For Office, but for service. we'll distinguish Our fortunes merely in the Title; partners In all respects else but the bed. The bed? forfend it Ioues own jealousy, till lastly We slip down in the common earth together; And there our beds are equal, save some Monument To show this was the King, and this the Subject. List, what sad sounds are these? extremely sad ones. Sure from Penthea's lodgings. Hark, a voice too. Oh no more, no more, too late Sighs are spent; the burning Tapers Of a life as chaste as Fate, Pure as are unwritten papers, Are burnt out: no heat, no light Now remains 'tis ever night. Love is dead, let lovers' eyes, Locked in endless dreams, Th' extremes of all extremes, open no more, for now Love dies, Now Love dies, implying love's Martyrs must be ever, ever dying. Oh my misgiving heart! A horrid stillness Succeeds this deathful air, let's know the reason: Tread softly, there is mystery in mourning. 'Tis done, that on her right hand. Good, begone. Soft peace enrich this room. How fares the Lady? Dead. Dead! Starved. Starved! Me miserable! Tell us How parted she from life? She called for music, And begged some gentle voice to tune a farewell To life and griefs: Christalla touched the Lute, I wept the funeral song. Which scarce was ended, But her last breath sealed up these hollow sounds, O cruel Ithocles, and injured Orgilus! So down she drew her veil, so died. So died. Up; you are messengers of death, go from us; Here's woe enough to court without a prompter. Away; and hark ye, till you see us next, No syllable that she is dead.— Away, Keep a smooth brow.— My Lord.
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)
Why not, pray Sir? The Soueraignty of Kingdomes in their nonage Stoop'd to desert, not birth: there's as much meri In clearenesse of affection, as in puddle Of generation: you haue conquer'd Loue Euen in the loueliest; if I greatly erre not, The sonne of Venus hath bequeath'd his quiuer To Ithocles his manage, by whose arrowes Calantha's brest is open'd. Can't be possible? I was my selfe a peece of suitor once, And forward in preferment too; so forward, That speaking truth, I may without offence (Sir) Presume to whisper, that my hopes, and (harke 'ee) My certainty of mariage stood assured With as firme footing (by your leaue) as any's Now at this very instant — but. — 'Tis granted: And for a league of priuacy betweene vs, Read o're my bosome, and pertake a secret; The Princesse is contracted mine. Still: why not? I now applaud her wisdome; when your kingdome Stands seated in your will secure, and setled, I dare pronounce you will be a iust Monarch: Greece must admire, and tremble. Then the sweetnesse Of so imparadis'd a comfort, Orgilus, It is to banquet with the gods. The glory Of numerous children, potency of Nobles, Bent knees, hearts pau'd to tread on. With a friendshi So deare, so fast as thine. I am vnfitting For Office, but for seruice. Wee'll distinguish Our fortunes meerely in the Title; partners In all respects else but the bed. The bed? Foresend it Ioues owne Iealousie, till lastly We slip downe in the common earth together; And there our beds are equall, saue some Monument To shew this was the King, and this the Subiect. List, what sad sounds are these? extremely sad ones. Sure from Penthea's lodgings. Harke, a voyce too. Oh no more, no more, too late Sighes are spent; the burning Tapers Of a life as chast as Fate, Pure as are vnwritten papers, Are burt out: no heat, no light Now remaines 'tis euer night. Loue is dead, let louers eyes, Lock'd in endlesse dreames, Th' extremes of all extremes, Ope no more, for now Loue dyes, Now Loue dyes, implying Loues Martyrs must be euer, euer dying. Oh my misgiuing heart! A horrid stilnesse Succeeds this deathfull ayre, let's know the reason: Tread softly, there is mystery in mourning. 'Tis done, that on her right hand. Good, begone. Soft peace inrich this roome. How fares the Lady? Dead. Dead! Staru'd. Staru'd! Me miserable! Tell vs How parted she from life? She call'd for musicke, And begg'd some gentle voyce to tune a farewell To life and griefes: Christalla touch'd the Lute, I wept the funerall song. Which scarce was ended, But her last breath seal'd vp these hollow sounds, O cruell Ithocles, and iniur'd Orgilus! So downe she drew her vaile, so dy'd. So dy'd. Vp; you are messengers of death, goe from vs; Here's woe enough to court without a prmpter. Away; and harke ye, till you see vs next, No sillable that she is dead. —Away, Keepe a smooth brow. — My Lord.