Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
This linstock gives you fire: shall then that strumpet And bastard breathe quick vengeance in my face; Making my kingdom reel, my subjects stagger In their obedience, and yet live? How? live! Shed not their bloods to gain a kingdom greater Then ten times this. Pish, not mattera how redcap and his wit run. As I am Catholic King, I'll have their hearts, Panting in these two hands. Dare you turn Hangman? Is this Religion Catholic to kill What even bruit beasts abhor to do, (your own!) To cut in sunder wedlock's sacred knot Tied by heavens fingers! to make Spain a Bonfire, To quench which must a second Deluge rain In showers of blood, no water; If you do this, There is an Arm Armipotent that can fling you Into a base grave, and your Palaces With Lightning strike, and of their Ruins make A Tomb for you (unpitied, and abhorred) Bear witness all you Lamps Celestial I wash my hands of this. Rise my good Angel, Whose holy tunes beat from me that evil spirit Which jogs mine Elbow, hence thou dog of hell. Baw wawghe. Bark out no more thou Mastiff, get you all gone, And let my soul sleep: there's gold, peace, see it done. Sirrah, you Salfa-Perilla Rascal, Toads-guts, you whoreson pocky French Spawn of a bursten-bellied Spider, do you hear, Monsire. Why do you bark and snap at my Narcissus, as if I were de french doag? You Cur of Cerberus' litter You'll poison the honest Lady? do but once toot into her Chamber-pot, and I'll make thee look worse than a witch does upon a close-stool. You shall not dare to touch him, stood he here Single before thee. I'll cut the Rat into Anchovies. I'll make thee kiss his hand, embrace him, love him And call him— The perfection of all Spanyards. Mars in little, the best book of the art of War printed in these Times: as a French Doctor I wooed have given you pellets for pills, but as my noblest Lord, rip my heart out in your service. Thou art the truest Clock That e'er to time paidst tribute, (honest Soldier) I lost mine own shape, and put on a French, Only to try thy truth, and the king's falsehood, Both which I find: now this great Spanish volume Is opened to me, I read him o'er and o'er, Oh what black Characters are printed in him. Nothing but certain ruin threat your Niece. Without prevention: well, this plot was laid In such disguise to sound him, they that know How to meet dangers, are the less afraid; Yet let me counsel you not to text down These wrongs in red lines. No, I will not, father; Now that I have Anatomized his thoughts, I'll read a lecture on 'em that shall save Many men's lives, and to the kingdom minister Most wholesome Surgery; here's our Aphorism; These letters from us in our Niece's name, You know treat of a marriage.
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)
This Linstocke gives you fire: shall then that strumpet And bastard breathe quicke vengeance in my face; Making my kingdome reele, my subjects stagger In their obedience, and yet live? How? live! Shed not their bloods to gaine a kingdome greater Thenten times this. Pishe, not mattera how Red-cap and his wit run. As I am Catholike King, I'le have their hearts, Panting in these two hands. Dare you turne Hang-man? Is this Religion Catholike to kill What even bruit beasts abhorre to doe, (your owne!) To cut in sunder wedlockes sacred knot Tyed by heavens fingers! to make Spaine a Bonfire, To quench which must a second Deluge raine In showres of blood, no water; If you doe this, There is an Arme Armipotent that can fling you Into a base grave, and your Pallaces With Lightning strike, and of their Ruines make A Tombe for you (unpitied, and abhorr'd) Beare witnesse all you Lamps Coelestiall I wash my hands of this. Rise my good Angell, Whoe holy tunes beat from me that evill spirit Which jogs mine Elbow, hence thou dog of hell. Baw wawghe. Barke out no more thou Mastiffe, get you all gone, And let my soule sleepe: there's gold, peace, see it done. Sirra, you Salfa-Perilla Rascall, Toads-guts, you whorson pockey French Spawne of a bursten-bellyed Spyder, doe you heare, Monsire. Why doe you barke and snap at my Narcissus, as if I were de Frenshe doag? You Curre of erberus litter You'll poyson the honest Lady? doe but once toot into her Chamber-pot, and I'le make thee looke worse then a witch does upon a close-stoole. You shall not dare to touch him, stood he here Single before thee. I'le cut the Rat into Anchovies. I'le make thee kisse his hand, imbraee him, love him And call him— The perfection of all Spanyards. Mars in little, the best booke of the art of Warre prnted in these Times: as a French Dotor I woo'd have given you pellets for pills, but as my noblest Lord, rip my heart out in your service. Thou art the truest Clocke That e're to time paidst tribute, (honest Souldier) I lost mine owne shape, and put on a French, Onely to try thy truth, and the Kings falshood, Both which I find: now this great Spanish volume Is open'd to me, I read him o're and o're, Oh what blacke Characters are printed in him. Nothing but certaine ruine threat your Neece. Without prevention: well, this plot was laid In such disguise to sound him, they that know How to meet dangers, are the lesse afraid; Yet let me counsell you not to text downe These wrongs in red lines. No, I will not, father; Now that I have Anatomiz'd his thoughts, I'le read a lecture on em that shall save Many mens lives, and to the kingdome minister Most wholesome Surgery; here s our Aphorisme; These letters from us in our Neeces name, You know treat of a marriage.