Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Antonio, thou mistak'st the name of love In thy Lucilio, if thou conceivest it dull And sprightless melancholy, whose corroding humour Feeds on the faint dejection of a mind That dares not meet an apprehensive thought Of least misfortune, but it basely yields: I have held up, thou knowest, against all plots A woman's wit could manage or invent, Or cause the Duke my father countenance To blow out the chaste flame of my affection, Have laid my breast open to envy's spite, And suffered even to banishment itself; If I may term't a banishment from her Who is all things to me, divine Althaea, Life, Country, fortune; all that this world calls happy. Strange Symptoms of affection! Say, Antonio, Was it not Banishment? that even when Iove Had licensed us in heaven, and meant to send Hymen to earth in white and Priestly robes To join our hands, as Cupid had our hearts; Then to be taken hoodwinked from my hopes, And sent in haste from Court, just in the harvest Of my desires, to combat with the Arts, The air and clime of Athens, whilst the Sun Trebled his course to the Celestial Ram. Yet know my Lord that your indulgent Parents Out of their Princely care intended it But as a course of Physic, to recover Your love-sick thoughts, hoping that Time & Absence, joined with the precepts of Philosophy Might purge you to a remissness of affection, And by degrees conquer this mouldy passion. All which supposed remedies dear friend, Set the disease a working, much less cure it: True love, Antonio, is immutable, A divine Charter of affection Confirmed in heaven, and can by no prescript Of Art or Nature ever be restrained. Nullis amor est medicabilis herbis, Nec prosunt Arts. Yet since in vain you strive To bandy with a mother, methinks Love tired in the depth of woe, should call your Reason To a new choice fitting your Birth and Fortunes. Call woes to woes, I am resolved to try The worst of spleen: and since her virtuous thoughts Have deigned to meet affection, that on wings Of true born faith hath raised itself, to clasp With her deserts, the most austerest tempest Envy can shower upon our innocent loves, Shall ne'er disjoin us. I have done my Lord. Then prithee Antonio, let me in peace retire, I feel some strange events lie at my heart My thoughts cannot presage: I fear, my friend, I have but dreamed as yet, but now mine eyes Must wake to meet true solid miseries. To see how strong love is, and the command It has o'er humane hearts! Poor Lord, I know Thy trueborn griefs are firm, and that chaste faith Never conceived to wave with floating likeness; Makes thee thus sink into the depth of sorrow. Nay, good Signior follow him, put him out of the humour, or else he will turn madman shortly. Why sir? Because he that's first a Scholar, next in love, the year after, is either an arrant fool or a stark madman.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Antonio, thou miſtak'ſt the name of love In thy Lucilio, if thou conceiv'ſt it dull And ſprightleſſe melancholy, whoſe corroding humour Feeds on the faint dejection of a minde That dares not meet an apprehenſive thought Of leaſt misfortune, but it baſely yeelds: I have held up, thou knoweſt, againſt all plots A womans wit could manage or invent, Or cauſe the Duke my father countenance To blow out the chaſte flame of my affection, Have laid my breſt open to envy's ſpight, And ſuffer'd even to baniſhment it ſelfe; If I may tearm't a baniſhment from her Who is all things to me, divine Althea, Life, Countrey, fortune; all that this world cals happy. Strange Symptomes of affection! Say, Antonio, Was it not Baniſhment? that even when Iove Had licens'd us in heav'n, and meant to ſend Himen to earth in white and Prieſtly robes To joyne our hands, as Cupid had our hearts; Then to be taken hoodwinkt from my hopes, And ſent in haſte from Court, juſt in the harveſt Of my deſires, to combate with the Arts, The aire and clime of Athens, whil'ſt the Sunne Trebled his courſe to the Coeleſtiall Ramme. Yet know my Lord that your indulgent Parents Out of their Princely care intended it But as a courſe of Phyſick, to recover Your love-ſick thoughts, hoping that Time & Abſence, Ioyn'd with the precepts of Philoſophy Might purge you to a remiſſneſſe of affection, And by degrees conquer this mouldy paſſion. All which ſuppoſed remedies deare friend, Set the diſeaſe a working, much leſſe cure it: True love, Antonio, is immutable, A divine Charter of affection Confirm'd in heav'n, and can by no preſcript Of Art or Nature ever be reſtrain'd. —Nullis amor eſt medicabilis herbis, —Nec proſunt Artes. Yet ſince in vaine you ſtrive To bandy with a mother, me thinkes Love Tir'd in the depth of woe, ſhould call your Reaſon To a new choiſe fitting your Birth and Fortunes. Call woes to woes, I am reſolv'd to trie The worſt of ſpleene: and ſince her vertuous thoughts Have daign'd to meet affection, that on wings Of true borne faith hath rais'd it ſelfe, to claſpe With her deſerts, the moſt auſtereſt tempeſt Envy can ſhowre upon our innocent loves, Shall ne'r diſ-joyne us. I have done my Lord. Then prethee Antonio, let me in peace retire, I feele ſome ſtrange events lie at my heart My thoughts cannot preſage: I feare, my friend, I have but dream'd as yet, but now mine eyes Muſt wake to meet true ſolid miſeries. To ſee how ſtrong love is, and the command It has o'r humane hearts! Poore Lord, I know Thy true-borne griefes are firme, and that chaſt faith Never conceiv'd to wave with floating likeneſſe; Makes thee thus ſinke into the depth of ſorrow. Nay, good Signior follow him, put him out of the humour, or elſe he will turne madman ſhortly. Why ſir? Becauſe he thats firſt a Scholler, next in love, the yeare after, is either an arrant foole or a ſtarke madman.