Glapthorne, Henry · published 1639 · first performed or written 1634 [1634-1639] [incorrect] (Annals) not in BritDrama · Globe T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.88 · 528 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
To be in love, nay to be so in love, To put off all our reason and discourse, Which does distinguish us from savage beasts, To dote upon a face (which like a mirror, Sullied by any breath) by the least sickness, Grows pale and ghastly: Is not this mere madness, Why should't inhabit here then: sure the soul, As 'tis a spirit of a subtle essence, A form as thin and pure, as is an Angels, Can ne'er be author of these wild desires, So opposite to its nature, they're all fleshly, Sordid, as is the clay this frame's composed of. Shall the soul, The noble soul, be slave to these wild passions, And bow beneath their weight: ha Isabella, All reason, sense and soul are in her looks, There's no discourse beyond them: cruel fair one, Are you still resolute to persist in your Strange tyranny, and scorn my constant love. Do not sir Abuse that sacred title which the Saints, And powers celestial glory in, by ascribing It to your loose desires, pray rather clothe them In their own attribute, term them your lust sir, Your wild irregular lust, which like those fired rakes, Misguiding nighted travellers, will lead you Forth of the fair path of your fame and virtue, To unavoided ruin. This is coyness, A cunning coyness, to make me esteem At a high rate, that jewel which you seem To part from so unwillingly (Merchants use it To put bad wares away:) dear Isabella, Think what excessive honour thou shalt reap, In the exchange of one poor trivial gem, And that but merely imaginary, a voice, And unsubstantial essence, yet for that Thou shalt have real pleasures, such as Queens, Prone to delicious luxury, would covet To sate their appetites: Think Isabella, That hardest Marble, though not cut by force, By oft diffusion of salt drops, is brought Into whatever form the Carvers fancy Before had destined it: your heart's that substance, And will by frequent oratory of tears, Be brought to wear the perfect stamp, the figure Of my affection on it. Thus besieged, It is high time, I summon up my virtue, All that is good, about me, to assist But ne'er aspire your Nuptials. You're too humble, Impose too mean a value on a gem, Kings would be proud to wear, dear Isabella, Let not thy modest sweetness interpose A new impediment twixt my lawful flames, And thy own Vestal chastity, let not fear, (To thy sex incident) of my father's wrath Stagger thy resolution; thou shalt be To me, my father, mother, brother, friend, My all of happiness; if we cannot here In peace enjoy our wishes, we will love Like Turtles in a Desert, only blessed In one another's company. Why look you sir. yonder's the cock o'th' game, About to tread you ginny hen, they're billing; Shall we retire, my Lord, perhaps they are going to't, And 'twould be a shame to spoil their sport. I am resolved, I'll speak to him. Your pleasure must be accomplished, But take heed we draw not the virgin's curses on us Both, take heed on't, it will fall heavy.
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)
To be in love, nay to be so in love, To put off all our reason and discourse, Which does distinguish us from savage beasts, To dote upon a face (which like a mirrour, Sully'd by any breath) by the least sicknesse, Growes pale and ghastly: Is not this meere madnesse, Why should't inhabit here then: sure the soule, As 'tis a spirit of a subtle essence, A forme as thin and pure, as is an Angels, Can ne're be author of these wild desires, So opposite to its nature, they'r all fleshly, Sordid, as is the clay this frame's compos'd of. Shall the soule, The noble soule, be slave to these wild passions, And bow beneath their waight: ha Isabella, All reason, sense and soule are in her lookes, There's no discourse beyond them: cruell faire one, Are you still resolute to persist in your Strange tyranny▪ and scorne my constant love. Doe not sir Abuse that sacred title which the Saints, And powers celestiall glory in, by ascribing It to your loose desires, pray rather cloth them In their owne attribute, terme them your lust sir, Your wild irregular lust, which like those fired rakes▪ Mis-guiding nighted travellers, will lead you Forth of the faire path of your fame and vertue, To unavoided ruine. This is coynesse, A cunning coynesse, to make me esteeme At a high rate, that jewell which you seeme To part from so unwillingly (Merchants use it To put bad wares away:) deare Isabella, Thinke what excessive honour thou shalt reape, In the exchange of one poore triviall gemme, And that but meerely imaginary, a voyce, And unsubstantiall essence, yet for that Thou shalt have reall pleasures, such as Queenes, Prone to delicious luxury, would covet To sate their appetites: Think Isabella, That hardest Marble, though not cut by force, By oft diffusion of salt drops, is brought Into what ever forme the Carvers fancie Before had destin'd it: your heart's that substance, And will by frequent oratory of teares, Be brought to weare the perfect stampe, the figure Of my affection on it. Thus besieg'd, It is high time, I summon up my vertue, All that is good, about me, to assist But ne're aspire your Nuptials. You're too humble, Impose too meane a value on a gemme, Kings would be proud to weare, deare Isabella, Let not thy modest sweetnesse interpose A new impediment 'twixt my lawfull flames, And thy owne Vestall chastity, let not feare, (To thy sex incident) of my fathers wrath Stagger thy resolution; thou shalt be To me, my father, mother, brother, friend, My all of happinesse; if we cannot here In peace injoy our wishes, we will love Like Turtles in a Desart, onely blest In one anothers company. Why look you sir. yonder's the cock oth' game, About to tred you ginny hen, they'r billing; Shall we retire, my Lord, perhaps they are going to't, And 'twould be a shame to spoile their sport. I am resolv'd, I'le speake to him. Your pleasure must be accomplish'd, But take heed we draw not the Virgins curses on us Both, take heed on't, it will fall heavy.