Rawlins, Thomas · published 1640 · first performed or written 1638 [1637-1639] (Annals) tragedy · King's Revels Company unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
See my Phillipa, her rich colour's fled and like that foul The furrow fronted Fates have made an Anvil To forge diseases on, she's lost herself With her fled beauty; yet pale as she stands, She adds more glory to our churlish foe, Than bashful Titan to the Eastern world. Spaniards, she is a Conquest; Rome, When her two necked Eagles, awed the world Would have swum through their own blood to purchase: Nor must you enjoy that gem, the superstitious gods Would quarrel for, but through my heart. Courage brave friends, they're valiant that can fly I'th' mouth of danger; 'tis they win, though die. This Moore speaks truth, Wrapped in a voice of thunder. Speak, my Philippa, what untutored slave Durst lay a rugged have upon thy softness? 'Twas the epitome of Hercules: No big Colossus, yet for strength far bigger: A little person great with matchless Valour. What pains thou takest to praise Thine enemy. 'Twere sin to rob him, that has wasted so His blood for praise: this noble Soldier, he 'Twas made me captive; nor can he boast 'Twas in an easy combat; for my good Sword, now ravished from mine arm, forced crimson Drops, that like a gory sweat, buried His manly body in oblivion: those that were Skilled in his Effigies, as drunk with Lethe, had Forgot 'twas he; till by the drawing of the Rueful curtain they saw in him their error. A common Soldier owner of a strength worthy Such praise? Dares he cope with the French General single? My Lord, you must strike quick and sure Why pause you? my Philippa must not stay, captivity's infection. We have the day. Not till you conquer me: which if my arm Be not by Witchcraft robbed of his late strength, Shall spin your labour to an ample length. Upon him then. Ods is dishonourable combat: my lads Let's one to one; I am for the Moore. Thee. Tailor, you are too saucy. Saucy? untutored groom, Mechanic slave. You have protection, by the Governors presence, Else my plumed Ostriches, 'tis not your feathers, More weighty than your heads, should stop My vengeance, but I'd text my wrong In bloody Characters upon your pampered flesh. You would? By Heaven I would. You'd be advised, and render up your life a Sacrifice to patience. Musk-Cat, ido make your Civet worship stink first in your perfumed Buff. Phlegmatic slave. Blood less Commanders. How. So. Let's reward his boldness. Whence this rashness? Blessed occasion: let's on 'em. All the Tail. A Tailor, a Tailor, a Tailor. Raimond you're now my prisoner: Blind Chance has favoured where your thoughts, And hope she meant to ruin From our discord, which heaven has made victorious, You meant to strike a harmony should glad you. 'Tis not to be borne: a Tailor! 'Twas an affront gales me to think on't: Besides his saucy valour might have ruined all Our forward fortunes, had the French been Stronger: let him be banished.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T45 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
See my Phillipa, her rich colour's fled and like that foule The furrow fronted Fates have made an Anvill To forge diseases on, she's lost her selfe With her fled beauty; yet pale as she stands, She addes more glory to our churlish foe, Than bashfull Tycan to the Easterne world. Spaniards, she is a Conquest; Rome, When her two neckt Eagles, aw'd the world Would have swum through their owne blood to purchase: Nor must you enjoy that jemme, the superstitious gods Would quarrell for, but through my heart. Courage brave friends, they're valiant that can flye I'th mouth of danger; 'tis they winne, though dye. This Moore speakes truth, Wrapt in a voyce of thunder. Speake, my Philippa, what untutor'd slave Durst lay a rugged have upon thy softnesse? 'Twas the epitome of Hercules: No bigge Colossus, yet for strength farre bigger: A little person great with matchlesse Valour. What paines thou takest to praise Thine enemy. 'Twere sinne to rob him, that has wasted so His blood for praise: this noble Souldier, he 'Twas made me captive; nor can he boast 'Twas in an easie combate; for my good Sword, now ravish'd from mine arme, forc'd crimson Drops, that like a goary sweat, buryed His manly body in oblivion: those that were Skild in his Effigies, as drunke with Lethe, had Forgot 'twas hee; till by the drawing of the Ruefull curtaine they saw in him their errour. A common Souldier owner of a strength worthy Such praise? Dares he cope with the French Generall single? My Lord, you must strike quick and sure Why pause you? my Philippa must not stay, Ceptivity's infection. We have the day. Not till you conquer me: which if my arme Be not by Witch-craft rob'd of his late strength, Shall spinne your labour to an ample length. Upon him then. Ods is dishonourable combate: my lads Lets one to one; I am for the Moore. Thee. Tayler, you are too sawcy. Sawcy? Vntutor'd groome, Mechanicke slave. You have protection, by the Governours presence, Else my plumed Estrages, 'tis not your feathers, More waighty than your heads, should stop My vengeance, but I'de text my wrong In bloody Characters upon your pamperd flesh. You wou'd? By Heaven I would. You'd be advis'd, and render up your life a Sacrifice to patience. Musk-Cat, I'do make your Civet worship stinke first in your perfumed Buffe. Phlegmaticke slave. Bloud lesse Commanders. How. So. Let's reward his boldnesse. Whence this rashnesse? Blest occation: lets on 'em. All the Tail. A Tayler, a Tayler, a Tayler. Raimond y'are now my prisoner: Blind Chance has favour'd where your thoughts, And hope she meant to ruine From our discord, which heaven has made victorious, You meant to strike a harmony should glad you. 'Tis not to be borne: a Tayler! 'Twas an affront gales me to thinke on't: Besides his sawcy valour might have ruin'd all Our forward fortunes, had the French been Stronger: let him be banish'd.