The Constant Maid (Love Will Find Out the Way) · chunk 12 of 32
Shirley, James · published 1640 · first performed or written 1638 [1630(?)-1640] (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T48 Addressing a lady: love, desire and inti · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T48: lady, love, heart, fair, eyes, la, lord, tears, fie, face.
I heard her say she would walk up to her chamber, The trick was but to teach him whither he Should follow; who as nimbly apprehended, To acquaint her with his new affections: I do this for your good, that Mistress Frances, Whom I'll send to you presently, may be Convinced in Hartwell's falsehood, and transplant Her love on you. This will be excellent; So we shall strangle him in his own noose, And he ne'er know who hurt him. I'll lose no time, you know my instructions. I had almost forgot, there is a cast of angels more. They are not cast away. If thou dost fear they'll drown, Nurse, I can give thee Lighter, I have some want weight. If you have an evil angel about you, Your business will thrive better when 'tis departed. There. Now all the good ones wait upon your worship. These things that go to and again, must have Their fees, they'll never speak in cause else. Save you sweet Lady. Kind Mr. Startup. Yes, I am kind if you knew all, but you are Deceived in somebody; love, and love your heart out, The party does not care a button for you. What party? No, I am a fool, a country clod, sweet Lady, Not worth one of your Shoe-ties, no not I; I do not know who makes an ass of you. How sir? A gull, a coxcomb, I am ashamed you have So little wit; Tell me, and tell me truly, Who loves this face of yours besides myself. Although it were immodest to commend it, I must thus far, in gratitude to nature, Acknowledge it no monster, I have seen One more deformed. Sweet Lady I know that; A worse face would become the Country, nay, There are but fifteen women in the parish I live in, of which, twelve are counted witches, And wear beards: But it troubles me, sweet Lady, You should be such an owl. This is course language. Not to see who abuses you; Oh I could Now find in my heart to baste you, baste you soundly: You think Mr. Hartwell loves you. I Believe he hates me not. You lie. Good words. You lie most basely, he affects your mother. My mother? this fool's mad. I would it were The fashion for women to wear swords. What then? I'd breathe you into a little understanding, I say again, and she is the son of darkness Denies it; Mr. Hartwell loves your mother. I hope he does. Oh I could kick your ignorance: He does love her in the way of Matrimony, And makes a property of you; I'll justify it. It is impossible. D''ee know that couple? Step behind the hangings, and you may Both hear and see: I say no more, sweet Lady, I am a rustic puppy, and know nothing.
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)
I heard her say she would walke up to her chamber, The trick was but to teach him whither he Should follow; who as nimbly apprehended, To acquaint her with his new affections: I do this for your good, that Mistris Frances, Whom I'll send to you presently, may be Convinced in Hartwell's falshood, and transplant Her love on you. This will be excellent; So we shall strangle him in his owne nooze, And he nere know who hurt him. I'll loose no time, you know my instructions. I had almost forgot, there is a cast of angels more. They are not cast away. If thou dost fear they'll drowne, Nurse, I can give thee Lighter, I have some want weight. If you have an evill angel about you, Your businesse will thrive better when 'tis departed. There. Now all the good ones wait upon your worship. These things that go to and agen, must have Their fees, they'll never speak in cause else. Save you sweet Lady. Kinde Mr. Startup. Yes, I am kinde if you knew all, but you are Deceiv'd in some body; love, and love your heart out, The party does not care a button for you. What party? No, I am a foole, a countrey clod, sweet Lady, Not worth one of your Shooe-tyes, no not I; I do not know who makes an asse of you. How sir? A gull, a coxcomb, I am asham'd you have So little wit; Tell me, and tell me truly, Who loves this face of yours besides my selfe. Although it were immodest to commend it, I must thus far, in gratitude to nature, Acknowledge it no monster, I have seen One more deform'd. Sweet Lady I know that; A worse face would become the Countrey, nay, There are but fifteen women in the parish I live in, of which, twelve are counted witches, And wear beards: But it troubles me, sweet Lady, You should be such an owle. This is course language. Not to see who abuses you; Oh I could Now finde in my heart to baste you, baste you soundly: You think Mr. Hartwell loves you. I Believe he hates me not. You lye. Good words. You lye most basely, he affects your mother. My mother? this fool's mad. I would it were The fashion for women to weare swords. What then? I'de breath you into a little understanding, I say agen, and she is the son of darknesse Denyes it; Mr. Hartwell loves your mother. I hope he does. Oh I could kick your ignorance: He does love her in the way of Matrimony, And makes a property of you; I'll justifie it. It is impossible. D'ee know that couple? Step behinde the hangings, and you may Both hear and see: I say no more, sweet Lady, I am a rustick puppy, and know nothing.