Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
Kill not, but surprise him. That's my voice still. Thine, Soldier. Oh this Colic of a kingdom, when the wind of treason gets amongst the small guts, what a rumbling and a roaring it keeps: and yet make the best of it you can, it goes out stinking: kill a King? Why? If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time 'tis eclipsed, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spain would serve to make us Candles for one year. No way to purge the sick State, but by opening a vain. Is that your French Physic? if every one of us should be whipped according to our faults, to be lashed at a cart's tail would be held but a flea-biting. What are you? come you from the King? No. No? more no's? I know him, let him enter. Signior, I thank your kind Intelligence, The news long since was sent into our ears. Yet we embrace your love, so fare you well. Will you smell to a sprig of Rosemary? No. Will you be hanged? No. This is either signior No, or no signior. He makes his love to us a warning-piece To arm ourselves against we come to Court, Because the guard is doubled. Tush, we care not. If any here arms his hand to cut off the head, let him first pluck out my throat: in any Noble Act I le wade chin-deep with you: but to kill a King? No, hear me— You were better, my Lord, sail 500 times to Bantom in the West-Indies, than once to Barathrum in the Low-Countries: It's hot going under the line there, the calenture of the soul is a most miserable madness. Turn then this wheel of Fate from shedding blood Till with her own hand justice ways all. Good. Must then his Trul be once more sphered in Court To triumph in my spoils, in my eclipses? And I like moping Iuno sit, whilst Iove Varies his lust into five hundred shapes To steal to his whore's bed! no, Malateste, Italian fires of jealousy burn my marrow; For to delude my hopes, the lecherous King Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage, To cover his Incontinence, which flames Hot (as my fury) in his black desires: I am swollen big with child of vengeance now, And till delivered, feel the throws of hell. Just is your Indignation, high, and Noble, And the brave heat of a true Florentine; For Spain Trumpets abroad her Interest In the king's heart, and with a black coal draws On every wall your scoffed at injuries, As one that has the refuse of her sheets, And the sick Autumn of the weakened King, Where she drunk pleasures up in the full spring. That (Malateste) That, That Torrent wracks me: But Hymen's Torch (held downward) shall drop out, And for it, the mad Furies swing their brands About the Bride-chamber. The Priest that joins them, Our Twin-born malediction.
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)
Kill not, but surprize him. Thats my voyce still. Thine, Souldier. Oh this Collicke of a kingdome, when the wind of treason gets amongst the small guts, what a rumbling and a roaring it keepes: and yet make the best of it you can, it goes out stinking: kill a King? Why? If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time tis cclips'd, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spaine woo'd serve to make us Candles for one yeare. No way to purge the sicke State, but by opening a vaine. Is that your French Physicke? if every one of us shoo'd be whip'd according to our faults, to be lasht at a carts taile would be held but a ea-biting. What are you? come you from the King? No. No? more no's? I know him, let him enter. gneor, I thanke your kind Intelligence, The newes long since was sent nto our eares. Yet we embrace your love, so fare you well. Will you smell to a sprig of Rosemary? No. Will you be hang'd? No. This is either Signeor No, or no Signeor. He makes his love to us a warning-peece To arme our selves against we come to Court, Because the guard is doubled. Tush, we care not. If any here armes his hand to cut off the head, le him first plucke out my throat: in any Noble Act I le wade chin-deepe with you: but to kill a King? No, heare me— You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to Bantom in the West-Indies, than once to Barathrum in the Low-Countries: It's hot going under the line there, the Callenture of the soule is a most miserable madnesse. Turne then this wheele of Fate from shedding blood Till with her owne hand Iustice weyes all. Good. Must then his Trul be once more sphear'd in Court To triumph in my spoyles, in my ecclipses? And I like moaping Iuno sit, whilst Iove Varies his lust into five hundred shapes Tostcale to his whores bed! no, Malateste, Italian fires of Iealousie burne my marrow; For to delude my hopes, the leacherous King Cuts out this robe of cunning marriage, To cover his Incontinence, which flames Hot (as my fury) in his blacke desires: I am swolne big with child of vengeance now, And till deliver'd, feele the throws of hell. Iust is your Indignation, high, and Noble, And the brave heat of a true Florentine; For Spaine Trumpets abroad her Interest In the Kings heart, and with a blacke cole drawes On every wall your scoff'd at injuries, As one that has the refuse of her sheets, And the sicke Autumne of the weakned King, Where she drunke pleasures up in the full spring. That (Malateste) That, That Torrent wracks me But Hymens Torch (held downe-ward) shall drop out, And for it, the mad Furies swing their brands About the Bride-chamber. The Priest that joynes them, Our Twin-borne malediction.