Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
The joy thereof, Together with these earthquakes, which will shake All Spaine, if they their Prince do disinherit, So borne, of such a Queen; being only daughter To such a brave spirit as the Duke of Florence, All this buzzed into the King, he cannot choose But charge that all the Bells in Spain echo up This joy to heaven; that Bonfires change the night To a high Noon, with beams of sparkling flames; And that in Churches, Organs (charmed with prayers) Speak loud for your most safe delivery. What fruits grow out of these? These; you must stick (As here and there spring weeds in banks of flowers) Spies amongst the people, who shall lay their ears To every mouth, and steal to you their whisperings. So. 'Tis a plummet to sound Spanish hearts How deeply they are yours: besides, a guess Is hereby made of any faction That shall combine against you; which the King seeing, If then he will not rouse him like a Dragon To guard his golden fleece, and rid his Harlot And her base bastard hence, either by death, Or in some traps of state, ensnare them both, Let his own ruins crush him. This goes to trial: Be thou my Magic book, which reading o'er Their counterspells we'll break; or if the King Will not by strong hand fix me in his Throne, But that I must be held Spain's blazing Star, Be it an ominous charm to call up war. Here's a parcel of man's flesh has been hanging up and down all this morning to speak with you. Is't not some executioner? I see nothing about him to hang in but's garters. Sent from the King to warn me of my death: I prithee bid him welcome. He says he is a Poet. Then bid him better welcome: Belike he's come to write my Epitaph, Some scurvy thing I warrant; welcome Sir. Madam, my love presents this book unto you. To me? I am not worthy of a line, Unless at that line hang some hook to choke me: To the Most honoured Lady— Onaelia. Fellow thou liest, I'm most dishonoured: Thou shouldst have writ to the most wronged Lady. The Title of this book is not to me, I tear it therefore as mine Honour's torn. Your Verses are lamed in some of their sect, Master Poet. What does it treat of? Of the solemn Triumphs Set forth at Coronation of the Queen. Hissing (the poet's whirlwind) blast thy lines. Com'st thou to mock my Tortures with her Triumphs? 'Las Madam! When her funerals are past, Crown thou a Dedication to my joys, And thou shalt swear each line a golden verse: Cornego, burn this Idol. Your book shall come to light, Sir. I have read legends of disastrous Dames; Will none set pen to paper for poor me? Canst write a bitter Satire? brainless people Do call'em Libels: dar'st thou write a Libel? I dare mix gall and poison with my Ink.
seed 43: T61 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The joy thereof, Together with these earth-quakes, whch will shake All paine, if they their Prince doe dis-inherit, So borne, of such a Queene; being onely daghter To such a brave spirit as the Duke of Florence, All this buzzd into the King, he cannot chuse But charge that all the Bels in Spaine eccho up Tis Ioy to heaven; that Bone-fires change the night To a high Noone, with beames of sparkling flames; And that in Churches, Organs (charm'd with prayers) Speake lowd for your most safe delivery. What fruits grow out of these? These; you must sticke (As here and there spring weeds in banks of flowers) Spies amongst the people, who shall lay their eares To every mouth, and steale to you their whisperings. So. 'Tis a plummet to sound Spanish hearts How deeply they are yours: besides, a ghesse Is hereby made of any faction That shall combide against you; which the King seeing, If then he will not rouze him like a Dragon To guard his golden fleece, and rid his Harlot And her base bastard hence, either by death, Or in some traps of state, insnare them both, Let his owne ruines crush him. This goes to tryall: Be thou my Magicke booke, which reading o're Their counterspels weell breake; or if the King Will not by strong hand fix me in his Throne, But that I must be held Spaines blazing Starre, Be it an ominous charme to call up warre. Here sa parcell of mans flesh has beene hanging up and downe all this morning to speake with you. Is't not some executioner? I see nothing about him to hang in but's garters. Sent from the King to warne me of my death: I prethe bid him welcome. He sayes he is a Poet. Then bid him better welcome: Belike he's come to write my Epitaph, Some scurvy thing I warrant; welcome Sir. Madam, my love presents this booke unto you. To me? I am not worthy of a line, Vnlesse at that line hang some hooke to choake me: To the Most honour'd Lady—Onaelia. Fellow thou lyest, I'me most dishonoured: Thou shouldst have writ to the most wronged Lady. The Title of this booke is not to me, I teare it therefore as mine Honour's torne. Your Verses are lam'd in some of their fect, Master Poet. What does it treat of? Of the soilemne Triumphs Set forth at Coronation of the Queene. Hiing (the Poets whire-wind) blast thy lines. Com'st thou to mocke my Tortures with her Triumphs? 'Las Madam! When her funerals are past, Crowne thou a Dedieation to my joyes, And thou shalt sweare each line a golden verse: Cornego, burne this Idoll. Your booke shall come to light, Sir. I have read legends of disastrous Dames; Will none set pen to paper for poore me? Canst write a bitter Satyre? brainlesse people Doe call'em Libels: dar'st thou write a Libell? I dare mix gall and poyson with my Inke.