Massinger, Philip · published 1636 · first performed or written 1627 [licensed for stage, Jul 5] (Annals) comedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour · 529 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Here she is Sir, Suddenly sick I grant, but sure not drunk, Speak to my Lord the Duke. All is discovered. Is this your only daughter. And my heir Sir, Nor keep I any woman in my house (Unless for sordid offices) but one, I do maintain trimmed up in her cast habits, To make her sport. And she indeed loves wine, And will take too much of it. And perhaps for mirth She was presented to you. It shall yield No sport to the contrivers, 'tis too plain now Her presence does confirm what Contorino Delivered of her, nor can sickness dim The splendour of her beauties, being herself then She must exceed his praise. Will your Grace hear me? I am faint and can say little. Here are accents, Whose every syllable is musical! Pray you let me raise you, and a while rest here! False Sanazarro, treacherous Giovanni; But stand we talking? Here's a storm soon raised. As thou art our Subject, Charomonte, swear To act what we command. That is an oath I long since took. Then by that oath we charge thee Without excuse, denial, or delay To apprehend, and suddenly, Sanazarro, And our Ingrateful Nephew. We have said it. Do it without reply, or we pronounce thee, Like them, a traitor to us. See them guarded In several lodgings, and forbid access To all, but when we warrant, Is our will Heard, sooner than obeyed? These are strange turns, But I must not dispute 'em. Be severe in't. O my abused lenity I from what height Is my power fall'n? O me most miserable! That being innocent, make others guilty. Most gracious Prince! Pray you rise, and then speak to me. My knees shall first be rooted in this earth, And Myrrha like I'll grow up to a tree, Dropping perpetual tears of sorrow, which Hardened by the rough wind, and turned to amber, Unfortunate virgins like myself shall wear, Before I'll make Petition to your Greatness But with such reverence, my hands held up thus, As I would do to heaven. You Princes are As gods on earth to us, and to be sued too With such humility, as his Deputies May challenge from their vassals. Here's that form Of language I expected; pray you speak, What is your suit? That you would look upon me As an humble thing, that millions of degrees Is placed beneath you. For what am I dread sir? Or what can fall in the whole course of my life, That may be worth your care, much less your trouble? As the lowly shrub is to the lofty Cedar, Or a molehill to Olympus, if compared, I am to you Sir. Or suppose the Prince, (Which cannot find belief in me,) forgetting The greatness of his birth and hopes, hath thrown An eye of favour on me, in me punish, (That am the cause) the rashness of his youth. Shall the Queen of the inhabitants of the air, The Eagle that bears thunder on her wings, In her angry mood destroy her hopeful young, For suffering a Wren to perch too near 'em? Such is our disproportion.
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)
Here she is Sir, Suddainly sick I grant, but sure not drunk, Speake to my Lord the Duke. All is discover'd. Is this your onely daughter. And my heire Sir, Nor keepe I any woman in my house (Unlesse for sordid offices) but one, I doe maintaine trimm'd up in her cast habits, To make her sport. And she indeede loves wine, And wil take too much of it. And perhaps for mirth She was presented to you. It shall yeeld No sport to the contrivers, 'tis too plaine now Her presence does confirme what Contorino Deliver'd of her, nor can sicknesse dimme The splendor of her beauties, being her selfe then She must exceede his praise. Will your Grace heare me? I am faint and can say little. Here are accents, Whose every syllable is musicall! Pray you let me raise you, and a while rest here! False Sanazarro, trecherous Giovanni; But stand we talking? Here's a storme soone rais'd. As thou art our Subject, Charomonte, sweare To act what we command. That is an oath I long since tooke. Then by that oath we charge thee Without excuse, deniall, or delay To apprehend, and suddainly, Sanazarro, And our Ingratefull Nephew. We have said it. Doe it without reply, or we pronounce thee, Like them, a traytor to us. See them guarded In severall lodgings, and forbid accesse To all, but when we warrant, Is our will Heard, sooner then obay'd? These are strange turnes, But I must not dispute 'em. Be severe in't. O my abused lenity I from what height Is my power falne? O me most miserable! That being innocent, make others guilty. Most gracious Prince! Pray you rise, and then speake to me. My knees shal first be rooted in this earth, And Mirrha like I'll grow up to a tree, Dropping perpetuall teares of sorrow, which Hardned by the rough winde, and turn'd to amber, Unfortunate virgins like my selfe shall weare, Before I'll make Petition to your Greatnesse But with such reverence, my hands held up thus, As I would doe to heaven. You Princes are As gods on earth to us, and to be su'd too With such humility, as his Deputies May chalenge from their vassalls. Here's that forme Of language I expected; pray you speake, What is your suit? That you would looke upon me As an humble thing, that millions of degrees Is plac'd beneath you. For what am I dread sir? Or what can fall in the whole course of my life, That may be worth your care, much lesse your trouble? As the lowly shrub is to the lofty Cedar, Or a molehill to Olympus, if compar'd, I am to you Sir. Or suppose the Prince, (Which cannot finde beliefe in me,) forgetting The greatnesse of his birth and hopes, hath throwne An eye of favour on me, in me punnish, (That am the cause) the rashnesse of his youth. Shall the Queene of the inhabitants of the ayre, The Eagle that beares thunder on her wings, In her angry mood destroy her hopefull young, For suff'ring a Wren to perch too neere 'em? Such is our disproportion.