Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
My child, yet newly quickened in my womb, Is blasted with the fires of Bastardy. Who! who dares once but think so in his dream? Medina's faction preached it openly. Be cursed he and his Faction: oh how I labour For these preventions! but so cross is Fate, My ills are ne'er hid from me, but their Cures: What's to be done? That which being left undone, Your life lies at the stake: let 'em be breathless Both brat and mother. Ha! She plays true Music, Sir: The mischiefs you are drenched in are so full, You need not fear to add to 'em; since now No way is left to guard thy rest secure, But by a means like this. All Spain rings forth Medina's ruin, and his Confederates. All his All yes and friends rush into troops Like raging Torrents. And loud Trumpet forth Your perjuries: seducing the wild people, And with rebellious faces threatening all. I shall be massacred in this their spleen, ere I have time to guard myself; I feel The fire already falling: where's our guard? Planted at Garden gate, with a strict charge That none shall enter but by your command. Let 'em be doubled: I am full of thoughts, A thousand wheels toss my incertain fears, There is a storm in my hot boiling brains, Which rises without wind, a horrid one: What clamour's that? Some treason: guard the King. Not in? One of your guard's slain, keep off the murderer. I am none, Sir. There's a man dropped down by thee. Thou desperate follow, thus press in upon us! Is murder all the story we shall read? What King can stand, when thus his Subjects bleed? What hast thou done? No hurt. played even the Wolf, And from a fold committed to my charge, Stolen and devoured one of the flock. Y'ave sheep enough for all that, Sir; I have killed none tho; or if I have, mine own blood shed in your quarrels, may beg my pardon; my business was in haste to you. I wooed not have thy sin scored on my head For all the Indian Treasury: I prithee tell me, Suppose thou hadst our pardon, O can that cure Thy wounded conscience, can there my pardon help thee Yet having deserved well both of Spain and us, We will not pay thy worth with loss of life, But banish thee for ever. For a groom's death? No more: we banish thee our Court and kingdom: A King that fosters men so dipped in blood, May be called merciful, but never good: Be gone upon thy life. Well: farewell. The fellow is not dead but wounded, Sir. After him, Malateste; in our lodging Stay that rough fellow, he's the man shall do't: Haste, or my hopes are lost. Why are you sad, Sir? For thee, Paulina, swell my troubled thoughts, Like billows beaten by too warring winds. Be you but ruled by me, I'll make a calm Smooth as the breast of heaven.
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)
My child, yet newly quickned in my wombe, Is blasted with the fires of Bastardy. Who! who dares once but thinke so in his dreame? Medina's faction preach'd it openly. Be curst he and his Faction: oh how I labour For these preventions! but so crosse is Fate, My ills are ne're hid from me, but their Cures: What's to be done? That which being left undone, Your life lyes at the stake: let 'em be breathlesse Both brat and mother. Ha! She playes true Musicke, Sir: The mischiefes you are drenchd in are so full, You need not feare to adde to 'em; since now No way is left to guard thy rest secure, But by a meanes like this. All Spaine rings forth Medina's nune, and his Confederates. All his All yes and friends rush into troopes like raging Torrents. And lowd Trumpet forth Your perjuries: seducing the wild people, And with rebellious faces threatning all. I shall be massacred in this their spleene, E're I have time to guard my selfe; I feele The fire already falling: where's our guard? Planted at Garden gate, with a strict charge That none shall enter but by your command. Let 'em be doubled: I am full of thoughts, A thousand wheeles tosle my incertaine feares, There is a storme in my hot boyling braines, Which rises without wind, a horrid one: What clamor's that? Some treason: guard the King. Not in? One of your guard's slaine, keepe off the murderer. I am none, Sir. There's a man drop'd downe by thee. Thou desperate follow, thus presse in upon us! Is murder all the story we shall read? What ing can stand, when thus his Subjects bleed? What hast thou done? No hurt. Plaid even the Wolfe, And from a fold committed to my charge, Stolne and devour'd one of the flocke. Y'ave sheepe enow for all that, Sir; I have kill'd none tho; or if I have, mine owne blood shed in your quarrels, may begge my pardon; my businesse was in haste to you. I woo'd not have thy sinne scoar'd on my head For all the Indian Treasury: I prethe tell me, Suppose thou hadst our pardon, O can that cure Thy wounded conscience, can there my pardon helpe thee Yet having deserv'd well both of Spaine and us, We will not pay thy worth with losse of life, But banish thee for ever. For a Groomes death? No more: we banish thee our Court and kingdome: A King that fosters men so dipt in blood, May be call'd mercifull, but never good: Be gone upon thy life. Well: farewell. The fellow is not dead but wounded, Sir. After him, Malateste; in our lodging Stay that rough fellow, hee's the man shall doo't: Haste, or my hopes are lost. Why are you sad, Sir? For thee, Paulina, swell my troubled thoughts, Like billowes beaten by too warring winds. Be you but rul'd by me, I'le make a calme Smooth as the brest of heaven.