Randolph, Thomas · published 1638 · first performed or written 1630 [licensed for stage, Nov 26] (Annals) pastoral · King's Revels Company · before the Court unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
What was it he said last?— Thou hast indeed A time wherein thou mayst revenge my scorn. With love, no otherwise: and there thou shalt not Prevent me, Damon. I will write— This ink Deserves not to record the name of Damon, 'tis black and ugly; thou thyself hast furnished me With that of better colour. 'Tis my blood That's truly Cupid's ink: love aught to write Only with that;—. This paper is too course; O that I had my heart, to write it there! But so it is already. Would I had A Parchment made of my own skin, in that To write the truth of my affection, A wonder to posterity!— Hand make haste As my blood does, or I shall faint I fear Ere I have done my story.— These milkmaids are the daintiest rogues▪ they kiss As sweet as sillibubs, surely Oberon Lives a delicious life! Ha! who lies here? A Nymph? If't were but now in Oberon's power To steal away her maidenhead, as she sleeps: O 'twould be excellent sport, to see how she Would miss it when she wakes: what misery 'tis To be a boy; why could not my good father Have got me five years sooner? here had been A purchase: well, 'tis but five years longer And I shall hope to see a merrier world. No body near too! 'Slid the very thought's Enough to make me man o'th' sudden, well I'll kiss her though. Oh I faint. She dreams; Now shall I know all secrets: These same women Are given so much to talk when they are awake That they prate sleeping too. My blood congeals Within my quill, and I can write no more. Love letters? she was troubled yester night About inditcing, and she dreams on't now. Poor sleepy secretary! I will fold it up And send it; who's that's here? my eyes Are dim, ha, Dorylas! Now she dreams she gives it me to carry; I half fear I use to carry letters in my sleep, Wearying myself all night, and that's the reason I am so loath to rise i'th' morning. Dorylas, carry this letter for me. I thought so, That's all that I can do, carry their letters, Or run of errands: well, come five years hence They may employ me better. Unto whom is it? Unto Laurinda, take it. How, a red letter? Say I wish all health to her and Damon; And being not able for to bear my griefs, I sought a remedy from mine own spear and died. How dead? oh me, See how her blood hath stained the holy Valley! Well you have done me wrong to kill yourself, Only to have me sacrificed on the Altar, I ne'er deserved it. Fear not Dorylas. Fear not, to dye so like a calf? oh Dorylas oh— Good Dorylas be gone, whilst yet my breath Will give me leave to say it was not you.
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)
What was it he said last?—Thou hast indeed A time wherein thou maist revenge my scorne. —With love, no otherwise: and there thou shalt not Prevent mee, Damon. I will write—This inke Deserves not to record the name of Damon, Tis black and ugly; thou thy selfe hast furnisht mee With that of better colour. 'Tis my blood That's truly Cupids inke: love ought to write Only with that;—. This paper is too course; O that I had my heart, to write it there! But so it is already. Would I had A Parchment made of my own skin, in that To write the truth of my affection, A wonder to posterity!—Hand make hast As my bloud does, or I shall faint I feare Ere I have done my story.— These milkemaids are the daintiest rogues▪ they kisse As sweet as sillibubs, surely Oberon Lives a delitious life! Ha! who lies here? A Nymph? If't were but now in Oberons power To steale away her maidenhead, as she sleepes: O 'twould be excellent sport, to see how shee Would misse it when she wakes: what misery 'tis To be a boy; why could not my good father Have got me five yeares sooner? here had been A purchase: well, 'tis but five yeares longer And I shall hope to see a merrier world. No body neere too! Slid the very thought's Enough to make me man oth sudden, well I'le kisse her though. Oh I faint. She dreames; Now shall I know all secrets: These same women Are given so much to talke when they are awake That they prate sleeping too. My blood congeales Within my quill, and I can write no more. Love letters? she was troubled yester night About inditcing, and she dreames on't now. Poore sleepy secretary! I will fold it up And send it; who's that's here? my eyes Are dimme, ha, Dorylas! Now she dreames shee gives it me to carry; I halfe feare I use to carry letters in my sleepe, Wearying my selfe all night, and that's the reason I am so loath to rise i'th' morning. Dorylas, carry this letter for mee. I thought so, That's all that I can doe, carry their letters, Or runne of errands: well, come five yeares hence They may imploy me better. Vnto whom is it? Vnto Laurinda, take it. How, a red letter? Say I wish all health to her and Damon; And being not able for to beare my griefes, I sought a remedy from mine own speare and died. How dead? oh mee, See how her blood hath stain'd the holy Valley! Well you have done me wrong to kill your selfe, Only to have me sacrifis'd on the Altar, I nere deserv'd it. Fear not Dorylas. Fear not, to dye so like a calfe? oh Dorylas oh— Good Dorylas be gone, whilest yet my breath Will give me leave to say it was not you.