The Bloody Brother (Rollo, Duke of Normandy) · chunk 36 of 39
Fletcher, John / Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip · published 1640 · first performed or written 1617 [revised 1627-1630] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.84 · 460 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Take o take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes like break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn, But my kisses bring again, Seals of love though sealed in vain. Hide o hide those hills of Snow, That thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow, Are yet of those that April wears, But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those Icy chains by thee. What bright star taking beauties for me upon her, In all the happy lustre of heaven's glory, Has dropped down from the sky to comfort me? Wonder of nature, let it not profane thee, My rude hand touch thy beauty, nor this kiss, The gentle sacrifice of love and service, Be offered to the honour of thy sweetness. My gracious Lord, no deity dwells here, Nor nothing of that virtue but obedience, The servant to your will affects no flattery. Can it be flattery to swear those eyes Are love's eternal lamps, he fires all hearts with That tongue the smart string to his bow; those sighs, The deadly shafts he sends into our souls, O look upon me with thy spring of beauty. Your Grace is full of game. By heaven my Edith, Thy mother fed on roses when she got thee. And thine on brambles, that hath pricked her heart out. The sweetness of th'Arabian wind still blowing, Upon the treasures of perfumes and spices, In all their pride and pleasures call thee Mistress. willt please you sit Sir. So you please sit by me. Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee, The Excellency that appears upon thee Ties up my tongue, pray speak to me. Of what sir. Of any thing, and any thing is excellent, Will you take my direction, speak of love then, Speak of thy fair self Edith, and whilst thou speakst, Let me thus languishing give up myself wench. Has a strange cunning tongue, why do you sigh sir, How masterly he turns himself to catch me. The way to Paradise (my gentle maid) Is hard and crooked, scarce repentance finding With all her holy helps the door to enter, Give me thy hand, what dost thou feel? Your tears sir, You weep extremely: strengthen me now justice, Why are these sorrow's Sir? Thou'lt never love me If I should tell thee, and yet there is no way left Ever to purchase this blessed Paradise, But swimming thither in these tears. I stagger. Are they not drops of blood? No. They are for blood then, For guiltless blood, and they must drop my Edith, They must thus drop till I have drowned my mischiefs. If this be true I have no strength to touch him.
Fletcher, John / Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip
Publication year (edition)
1640
First performance / composition (Annals)
1617 [revised 1627-1630]
First performance (BritDrama)
1617 [1617-1620]
Company (BritDrama)
King's Men
Genre (British Drama)
tragedy
Play type
Adult Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 1115 · TCP A00959 · DEEP 936
Edition role
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 2357–2420 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 36 of 39 in this edition
Length
460 words · 585 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T4 — Love-longing and the lover's complaintcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.837 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Take ô take those lipps away, That so sweetly were forsworne, And those eyes like break of day, Lights that doe mislead the morne, But my kisses bring againe, Seales of love though seal'd in vaine. Hide ô hide those hills of Snow, That thy frozen bosome beares, On whose tops the pincks that grow, Are yet of those that Aprill wears, But first set my poore heart free, Bound in those Icy chaines by thee. What bright starre taking beauties for me upon her, In all the happy lustre of heavens glory, Has dropt downe from the skye to comfort mee? Wonder of nature, let it not prophane thee, My rude hand touch thy beauty, nor this kisse, The gentle sacrifice of love and service, Be offer'd to the honour of thy sweetnesse. My gratious Lord, no diety dwells here, Nor nothing of that vertue but obedience, The servant to your will affects no flattery. Can it be flattery to sweare those eyes Are loves eternall lamps, he fires all hearts with That tongue the smart string to his bow; those sighes, The deadly shafts he sends into our soules, O look upon me with thy spring of beauty. Your Grace is full of game. By heaven my Edith, Thy mother fed on roses when she got thee. And thine on brambles, that hath prickt her heart out. The sweetnesse of th'Arabian winde still blowing, Vpon the treasures of perfumes and spices, In all their pride and pleasures call thee Mistris. Wilt please you sit Sir. So you please sit by mee. Faire gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee, The Excellency that appears upon thee Tyes up my tongue, pray speak to mee. Of what sir. Of any thing, and any thing is excellent, Will you take my direction, speak of love then, Speak of thy faire selfe Edith, and whilst thou speakst, Let me thus languishing give up my selfe wench. Has a strange cunning tongue, why doe you sigh sir, How masterly he turnes himselfe to catch me. The way to Paradise (my gentle maid) Is hard and crooked, scarce repentance finding With all her holy helps the doore to enter, Give me thy hand, what dost thou feele? Your teares sir, You weep extreamly: strengthen me now Iustice, Why are these sorrowes Sir? Thou'lt never love me If I should tell thee, and yet there is no way let Ever to purchase this blest Paradise, But swimming thither in these teares. I stagger. Are they not drops of bloud? No. They are for bloud then, For guiltlesse bloud, and they must drop my Edith, They must thus drop till I have drown'd my mischiefes. If this be true I have no strength to touch him.