The Constant Maid (Love Will Find Out the Way) · chunk 20 of 32
Shirley, James · published 1640 · first performed or written 1638 [1630(?)-1640] (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T26 Devils, hell and fiends · 489 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T26: devil, hell, devils, sure, soul, fiend, sr, wife, lord, men.
Now 'tis gone: 'tis bright Again, Is't not a spirit? Oh deliver me. I have heard some such things use to walk the fields. What shall I do? Pray, pray with as much strength As if you had no land, or were confined To my annuity: Now I fear no spirits; This riches makes us cowards; Hide yourself, I will go nearer. Dost know the devil if thou seest him, Close? A pox of love, if this be the reward on't; Some call it fire, but I find no such matter; I am frozen to the Blanket, and my teeth Strike one another, and keep time like hammers That beat a Psalm upon the virtuous Anvil; I do believe if they were beaten out, They would make false Dice, there's quicksilver in 'em, I know already by their dancing. Sir, where are you? Here I am still. You're a dead man. More terror? what's the matter? 'Tis my Master with a dark lantern, that pursues us: By This darkness, 'tis his voice, wrap yourself up, And roll into some ditch, flight will betray us. I had as good be killed, but yet I'll venture. 'Tis he indeed, and more than I expected: The matters do not fadge well with his Mistress. What a sweet thing is night? how calm and harmless? No whispering, but of leaves, on which the breath Of heaven plays Music to the birds that slumber; Here are no objects to betray our sense To repentance, nor can women, thus Advantaged by the Tapers of the night, Spread their temptations to undo poor man: What a fine book is heaven? which we may read Best now, when every Star is a fair letter: How much they wrong thee night, which call thee guilty Of rapes and murders: 'Tis the day, that like A glorious whore, engages men to act 'em, And taking then the darkness to obscure 'em: We unjustly lay the shame upon thy brows, That art so innocent; Thou never sawest them Befriended with this silence; I begin To wander: There's no wilderness abroad, To him that's lost at home. Sir. Who's that? One that has taken pains for you tonight: I am Close. What mak'st thou here? I wait upon My charge; I led your Rival a procession In's shirt, persuading him you had resolved To cut his throat else; he's hard by at's prayers, And thinks you ha' pursued him. Ha, I'll do't; Show me the fool, by all my hopes I'll kill him, And send his base heart as a present to her: Fate has preserved me with this revenge, And I will not delay his death a minute. You won't kill him basely? No. Why then There is no fear but he'll live long enough; I'll undertake he ne'er shall go provided To fight w'ee; and for other satisfaction, Name it, and take it; so I'll fetch him to ye.
seed 43: T23 · seed 44: T23 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Now 'tis gone: 'tis bright Agen, Is't not a spirit? Oh deliver me. I have heard some such things use to walke the fields. What shall I do? Pray, pray with as much strength As if you had no land, or were confined To my annuity: Now I feare no spirits; This riches makes us cowards; Hide your selfe, I will go neerer. Dost know the devill if thou seest him, Close? A pox of love, if this be the reward on't; Some call it fire, but I finde no such matter; I am frozen to the Blanket, and my teeth Strike one another, and keep time like hammers That beat a Psalme upon the vertuous Anvile; I do beleeve if they were beaten out, They would make false Dyce, there's quicksilver in 'em, I know already by their dancing. Sir, where are you? Here I am still. Y'are a dead man. More terrour? what's the matter? 'Tis my Master with a darke Lanthorne, that pursues us: By This darknesse, 'tis his voice, wrap your selfe up, And roule into some ditch, flight will betray us. I had as good be kill'd, but yet I'll venture. 'Tis he indeed, and more than I expected: The matters do not fadge well with his Mistris. What a sweet thing is night? how calme and harmlesse? No whispering, but of leaves, on which the breath Of heaven playes Musick to the birds that slumber; Here are no objects to betray our sence To repentance, nor can women, thus Advantag'd by the Tapers of the night, Spread their temptations to undoe poore man: What a fine book is heave? which we may read Best now, when every Star is a faire letter: How much they wrong the night, which call thee guilty Of rapes and murders: 'Tis the day, that like A glorious whore, engages men to act 'em, And taking then the darknesse to obscure 'em: We unjustly lay the shame upon thy browes, That art so innocent; Thou never sawest them Befriended with this silence; I begin To wander: There's no wildernesse abroad, To him that's lost at home. Sir. Who's that? One that has taken paines for you to night: I am Close. What mak'st thou here? I wait upon My charge; I led your Rivall a procession In's shirt, perswading him you had resolv'd To cut his throat else; he's hard by at's prayers, And thinkes you ha' pursued him. Ha, I'll do't; Shew me the foole, by all my hopes I'll kill him, And send his base heart as a present to her: Fate has preserved me with this revenge, And I will not delay his death a minute. You wo'not kill him basely? No. Why then There is no feare but he'll live long enough; I'll undertake he nere shall go provided To fight w'ee; and for other satisfaction, Name it, and take it; so I'll fetch him to ye.