Shirley, James · published 1635 · first performed or written 1631 [licensed for stage, May 4] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 469 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
You hastily interpret, Thy pardon I have only erred, but not With the least scruple of thy faith, and honour To me, thou hast a noble Soul, and lov'st me Rather too well, I would thou wert my enemy, That we had been borne in distant climes, and never Took cement from our Sympathies in nature. Would we had never seen, or known each other, This may seem strange, from him, that loves thee Cosmo, More precious than his life. Love me, and, wish This separation? I will give thee proof; So well I love thee, nothing in the world Thy soul doth heartily affect, but I Do love it too, does it not trouble thy Belief? I wear not my own heart about me, But thine exchanged, thy eyes let in my objects, Thou hear'st for me, talk'st, kissest, and enjoyst All my felicities. What means this language? But what's all this to thee? go to Oriana, And bathe thy lips in Rosy dew of kisses, Renew thy eye that looks as Saturn hung Upon the lid, take in some golden beam, she'll dart a thousand at one glance, and if At thy return, thou findst I have a being In this vain world, I'll tell thee more. But sir, you must not part so. Not with my good will, I have no great ambition to be mad. Petruchio, let me conjure thee, tell What weight hangs on thy Master's heart? why does he Appear so full of trouble? D''ee not guess? Point at the cause, I cannot. Why he loves— The beauteous Amidea, I know that. Some such thing was, but you are his friend, my Lord, His soul is now devoted to Oriana, And he will die for her, if this Ague hold him. Ha. Your doublet pinch you Sir? I cannot tell; But ne'er a woman in the world should make Me hang myself, it may be for his honour, he'll choose another death, he is about one; For 'tis not possible without some cure, He should live long, he has forgot to sleep, And for his diet, h'as not eat this se'night As much as would choke a Sparrow, a Fly is An Epicure to him: Good sir, do you counsel him. So, so, it works; This was my Lord Lorenzo's plot, and I Ha'been his Engine in the work, to batter His love to Amidea, by praising Oriana to him, he is here, my Lord. Petruchio, where's your Lord? how moves the work? To your own wish my Lord, he has thrown off The thought of Amidea, and is mad For Cosmo's Mistress, whom by your instructions I have commended so— My witty villain! Cosmo is with him, to whom cunningly I ha' discovered his disease, and I Beseech you interrupt 'em not.
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)
You hastily interpret, Thy pardon I have onely errd, but not With the least scruple of thy faith, and honor To mee, thou hast a noble Soule, and lou'st mee Rather too well, I would thou wert my enemy, That wee had been borne in distant climes, and never Tooke cement from our Simpathies in nature. Would wee had never seene, or knowne each other, This may seeme strange, from him, that loves thee Cosmo, More pretious then his life. Love mee, and, wish This seperation? I will give thee proofe; So well I love thee, nothing in the world Thy soule doth hartily affect, but I Doe love it too, does it not trouble thy Beleefe? I weare not my owne heart about me, But thine exchangd, thy eyes let in my objects, Thou hear'st for me, talk'st, kissest, and enjoyst All my felicities. What meanes this language? But whats all this to thee? go to Oriana, And bath thy lips in Rosy dew of kisses, Renew thy eye that lookes as Saturne hung Upon the lid, take in some golden beame, Shee'le dart a thousand at one glance, and if At thy returne, thou findst I have a being In this vaine world, Ile tell thee more. But sir, you must not part so. Not with my good will, I have no great ambition to be mad. Petruchio, let mee conjure thee, tell What weight hangs on thy Masters heart? why does he Appeare so full of trouble? D'ee not guesse? Point at the cause, I cannot. Why he loves— The beauteous Amidea, I know that. Some such thing was, but you are his friend, my Lord, His soule is now devoted to Oriana, And he will dye for her, if this Ague hold him. Ha. Your doublet pinch you Sir? I cannot tel; But nere a woman in the world should make Me hang my selfe, it may be for his honour, Hee'le choose another death, hee is about one; For 'tis not possible without some cure, He should live long, he has forgot to sleepe, And for his dyet, h'as not eate this se'night As much as would choake a Sparrow, a Flie is An Epicure to him: Good sir, doe you counsell him. So, so, it workes; This was my Lord Lorenzoes plot, and I Ha'beene his Engine in the worke, to batter His love to Amidea, by praysing Oriana to him, he is here, my Lord. Petruchio, where's your Lord? how moves the worke? To your owne wish my Lord, he has throwne off The thought of Amidea, and is mad For Cosmo's Mistris, whom by your instructions I have commended so— My witty villaine! Cosmo is with him, to whom cunningly I ha discover'd his disease, and I Beseech you interrupt 'em not.