Gascoigne, George / Kinwelmershe, Francis / Yelverton, ChristopherEuripides / Dolce, Lodovico · published 1575 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy T21 Cupid, Venus and the nymphs typicality 0.83 · 477 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T21: cupid, venus, love, ceres, diana, fair, nymphs, goddess, bow, damon.
In prime of youth when Cupid kindled fire, And warmed my will with flames of fervent love: To further forth the fruit of my desire, My friends devised this mean for my behove. They made a match according to my mind, And cast a snare my fancy for to blind: Short tale to make: the deed was almost done, Before I knew which way the work begun. And with this lot I did myself content, I lent a liking to my parent's choice: With hand and heart I gave my free consent, And hung in hope for ever to rejoice. I lived and loved long time in greater joy, Than she which held king Priam's son of Troy: But three lewd lots have changed my heaven to hell And those be these, give ear and mark them well. First slander he, which always beareth hate, To happy hearts in heavenly state that bide: 'Gan play his part to stir up some debate, Whereby suspect into my choice might glide. And by his means the slime of false suspect, Did (as I fear) my dearest friend infect. Thus by these twain long was I plunged in pain, Yet in good hope my heart did still remain. But now (ay me) the greatest grief of all, (Sound loud my Lute, and tell it out my tongue) The hardest hap that ever might befall, The only cause wherefore this song is song, Is this alas: my love, my Lord, my Roy, My chosen fere, my gem, and all my joy, Is kept perforce out of my daily sight, Whereby I lack the stay of my delight. In lofty walls, in strong and stately towers, (With troubled mind in solitary sort,) My lovely Lord doth spend his days and hours, A weary life devoid of all disport. And I poor soul must lie here all alone, To tire my truth, and wound my will with moan: Such is my hap to shake my blooming time, With winter's blasts before it pass the prime. Now have you heard the sum of all my grief, Whereof to tell my heart (o) rends in twain: Good Ladies yet lend you me some relief, And bear a part to ease me of my pain. My sorts are such, that weighing well my truth, They might provoke the craggy rocks to ruth, And move these walls with tears for to lament, The loathsome life wherein my youth is spent. But thou my Lute, be still, now take thy rest, Repose thy bones upon this bed of down: Thou hast discharged some burden from my breast, Wherefore take thou my place, herelie thee down. And let me walk to tire my restless mind, Until I may entreat some courteous wind To blow these words unto my noble make, That he may see I sorrow for his sake.
Gascoigne, George / Kinwelmershe, Francis / Yelverton, ChristopherEuripides / Dolce, Lodovico
Publication year (edition)
1575
First performance / composition (Annals)
1566
First performance (BritDrama)
1566 [1566-1567]
Genre (British Drama)
tragedy
Play type
Translation;Nonprofessional;University/Inns of Court
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 107 · TCP A01514 · DEEP 5007.03
Edition role
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 3141–3196 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 51 of 68 in this edition
Length
477 words · 596 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T21 — Cupid, Venus and the nymphscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.832 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T24 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
In prime of youth when Cupide kindled fire, And warmd my will with flames of feruent loue: To further forth the fruite of my deſire, My fréends deuiſde this meane for my behoue. They made a match according to my mind, And caſt a ſnare my fanſie for to blind: Short tale to make: the déede was almoſt donne, Before I knew which way the worke begonne. And with this lot I did my ſelfe content, I lent a liking to my parents choyſe: With hand and hart I gaue my frée conſent, And hung in hope for euer to reioyce. I liu'd and lou'd long time in greater ioy, Than ſhée which held king Priams ſonne of Troy: But thrée lewd lots haue chang'd my heauen to hell And thoſe be theſe, giue eare and marke them well. Firſt ſlaunder he, which alwayes beareth hate, To happy harts in heauenly ſtate that bide: Gan play his part to ſtirre vp ſome debate, Whereby ſuſpect into my choyſe might glide. And by his meanes the ſlime of falſe ſuſpect, Did (as I feare) my deareſt friend infect. Thus by theſe twayn long was I plungd in paine, Yet in good hope my hart did ſtill remaine. But now (aye me) the greateſt grief of all, (Sound loud my Lute, and tell it out my toong) The hardeſt hap that euer might befall, The onely cauſe wherfore this ſong is ſoong, Is this alas: my loue, my Lord, my Roy, My choſen pheare, my gemme, and all my ioye, Is kept perforce out of my dayly ſight, Whereby I lacke the ſtay of my delight. In loftie walles, in ſtrong and ſtately towers, (With troubled minde in ſolitary ſorte,) My louely Lord doth ſpend his dayes and howers, A weary life deuoyde of all diſport. And I poore ſoule muſt lie here all alone, To tyre my trueth, and wound my will with mone: Such is my hap to ſhake my blooming time, With winters blaſtes before it paſſe the prime. Now haue you heard the ſumme of all my grief, Whereof to tell my hart (oh) rends in twayne: Good Ladies yet lend you me ſome relief, And beare a parte to eaſe me of my payne. My ſortes are ſuch, that waying well my trueth, They might prouoke the craggy rocks to rueth, And moue theſe walles with teares for to lament, The lothſome life wherein my youth is ſpent. But thou my Lute, be ſtill, now take thy reſt, Repoſe thy bones vppon this bed of downe: Thou haſt diſchargd ſome burden from my breſt, Wherefore take thou my place, herelie thée downe. And let me walke to tyre my reſtleſſe minde, Vntill I may entreate ſome curteous winde To blow theſe wordes vnto my noble make, That he may ſée I ſorow for his ſake.