Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Both to yourself, I am not sick. Pledge her fair Nymph. See what a company of religious fools we maids be, to sigh and hang the head for ere a rough-hewn-stubble cheek on 'em all, when a Crab-faced Cynic, that has neither land nor handsomeness, will scoff at affection, and say he knows four Wenches, who if they were stamped and strained, so, that he might draw out the virtue of one, the beauty of another, the witty good nature of a third, and the Portion of a fourth; he could make a reasonable good Wife for ere a younger brother in the land. By Pan but such a wife would right well fit a Worshipful Heir. Nay that were pity faith, than fools should trouble two houses. Come will you take your liquour? good Spirit leave thy tempting: my heart grows cold and pants, as if it did presage some fatal ill stood nigh me. These be the dreams of love: here take a draught, and waken imagination, fancy is strong with you. I think so too; pray heaven it be no more. Great Brimo, shall our labour be frustrate! I'll frame a lie shall make her hang herself For grief, since poison fails— yet taste a little, The City yields no better Cordial to banish fears. I cannot drink— were you in the City late? I was, and saw a heavy spectacle, The Duke's sole Heir, who taking the disguise Of a condemned Lady, that stood tainted Of Treason, was thrown down from off the Rock, And, by the privilege of Law that gives Our Virgins leave to plead and die concealed, Until his Funeral, was still unknown. Since when, the Duke to satisfy the wrath His ignorance had bred by such a loss Unto the State, has burnt the guiltless mother Of that young Lady, persecutes her Kin, Razed their ancient House, and vows the death Of her, who yet is fled, and none knows where. Oh— Are you poisoned with a lie?— What ails you Lass? What fainting? I am not well; good Shepherdess Leave us a while; I thank thee for her meat, But the Sauce comes worse than poison to my breast. Then fare you well: I am sorry to have been the Messinger of that afflicts you— and kills not presently, Although I hope this lie proves to thy heart, Poison more rank than ere was used by Art. O we have lived too long Camilla, and outslept the hour in which we should have died, Plagues, guilt and mischief have overtaken us, Because we slacked, and would not quit the world To rest in pure white Tombs of innocence, I fear some of us shall recompense our sloth too soon, for I am wondrous ill. Poor wench, these news have wounded thee.
seed 43: T0 · seed 44: T0 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Both to your ſelfe, I am not ſick. Pledge her faire Nymph. See what a company of religious fooles wee maides bee, to ſigh and hang the head for ere a rough-hewne-ſtubble cheeke on 'hem all, when a Crab-fac'd Cynick, that has neither land nor hanſomneſſe, will ſcoffe at affection, and ſay hee knowes foure Wenches, who if they were ſtampt and ſtrain'd, ſo, that he might draw out the vertue of one, the beauty of another, the witty good nature of a third, and the Portion of a fourth; he could make a reaſonable good Wife for ere a yonger brother in the land. By Pan but ſuch a wife would right well fit a Worſhipfull Heire. Nay that were pity faith, then fooles ſhould trouble two houſes. Come will you take your Liquor? good Spirit leave thy tempting: my heart growes cold and pants, as if it did preſage ſome fatall ill ſtood nigh me. Theſe be the dreames of love: here take a draught, and waken imagination, fancy is ſtrong with you. I thinke ſo too; pray heaven it be no more. Great Brimo, ſhall our labour be fruſtrate! Ile frame a lye ſhall make her hang her ſelfe For griefe, ſince poyſon failes— yet taſte a little, The Citie yeelds no better Cordiall to baniſh feares. I cannot drinke—were you in the City late? I was, and ſaw a heavy ſpectacle, The Dukes ſole Heire, who taking the diſguiſe Of a condemned Lady, that ſtood tainted Of Treaſon, was throwne downe from off the Rock, And, by the priviledge of Law that gives Our Virgins leave to pleade and dye conceal'd, Vntill his Funerall, was ſtill unknowne. Since when, the Duke to ſatisfie the wrath His ignorance had bred by ſuch a loſſe Vnto the State, has burnt the guiltleſſe mother Of that young Lady, perſecutes her Kinne, Raced their ancient Houſe, and vowes the death Of her, who yet is fled, and none knowes where. Oh— Are you poyſon'd with a lie?—What ailes you Laſſe? What fainting? I am not well; good Shepheardeſſe Leave us a while; I thanke thee for her meate, But the Sawce comes worſe than poyſon to my breaſt. Then fare you well: I am ſorry to have bin the Meſſinger of that afflicts you—and kils not preſently, Although I hope this lie proves to thy heart, Poyſon more ranke then ere was us'd by Art. O we have liv'd too long Camilla, and Out-ſlept the houre in which wee ſhould have dyed, Plagues, guilt and miſchiefe have o'rtaken us, Becauſe we ſlack'd, and would not quit the world To reſt in pure white Tombs of innocence, I feare ſome of us ſhall recompence our ſloth too ſoone, for I am wondrous ill. Poore wench, theſe newes have wounded thee.