Shirley, James · published 1640 · first performed or written 1640 (Annals) not in BritDrama · Ogilby's Men unassigned nearest T14 Royal love, favour and dynastic relation · 470 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
His brother Coribreus Is nearer to that title, and he says He loves me. Does he so? then love him best, Imagine I had promised, Sir, my heart To his younger brother. Break a thousand promises, And hazard breaking of thy heart too wench, To be but one degree nearer a Queen; It does exalt my heart, spread all thy charms Of wit and language, when he courts thee girl: Smile, kiss, or any thing, that may endear Him and so great a fortune: I must leave thee, But won't be long absent. Sir, the Bard does press to see the Queen. He must not see her, His insolence I'll punish; yet admit him hither, His pleasant nature may raise mirth In my sad daughter. Welcome, merry Bard. I care not whither I be or no: the Queen I come to see. she's private with the Prince: Come hither, dost thou see that piece of sullenness, That phlegmatic foolish thing. And like the father. Make her merry, and I'll give thee Gold joy to purchase a new harp, here's some In earnest; thou hast wanton pretty songs To stir the merry thoughts of maids: I'm gone To give thee opportunity, my presence May spoil the working of thy mirth, that done Shalt speak with the Queen too. Fare you well Sir, and take a knave Along wi''e. Here's a rose Sprung out of a thistle now: You are sad, Madam. I have no cause of mirth, Bard. What d'ye think of me? Think of thee, Bard; I think thouart honest, and canst show a pleasant face sometimes, without an over joy within, but 'tis thy office. I know why you are so melancholy. Prithee why dost think, Bard? You want a man. Why, thou art one? That's more than you know. 'Tis long of men that maids are sad; Come then, and sweetly kiss them, Their lips invite, you will be mad To come too late and miss them. In their cheeks, are full-blown roses To make garlands, to make posies: He that desires to be a father, Let him make haste before they fall, and gather: You stay too long, and do them wrong: If men would virgins strive to please, No maid this year should die o'th' green disease. What, are you merry yet? I am so far From being raised to mirth, that I incline To anger. Come, I'll sit you with a song, A lamentable ballad, of one lost Her maidenhead, and would needs have it cried, With all the marks, in hope to ha''t again. You were not sent to abuse me? A dainty air too, I'll but tune my instrument. No more, or I'll complain: sure he knows nothing of my dishonour. How mine own thoughts fright me? Now you shall hear the ditty.
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)
His brother Coribreus Is neerer to that title, and he sayes He loves me. Does he so? then love him best, Imagine I had promisd, Sir, my heart To his younger brother. Break a thousand promises, And hazard breaking of thy heart too wench, To be but one degree neerer a Queene; It does exalt my heart, spread all thy charmes Of wit and language, when he courts thee girle: Smile, kisse, or any thing, that may endeere Him and so great a fortune: I must leave thee, But wonot be long absent. Sir, the Bard does presse to see the Queene. He must not see her, His insolence I'll punish; yet admit him hither, His pleasant nature may raise mirth In my sad daughter. Welcome, merry Bard. I care not whither I be or no: the Queene I come to see. Shee's private with the Prince: Come hither, do'st thou see that piece of sullennesse, That phlegmatick foolish thing. And like the father. Make her merry, and I'll give thee Gold joy to purchase a new harp, here's some In earnest; thou hast wanton pretty songs To stirre the merry thoughts of maids: I'me gone To give thee opportunity, my presence May spoile the working of thy mirth, that done Sha't speak with the Queene too. Fare you well Sir, and take a knave Along we'e. Here's a rose Sprung out of a thistle now: You are sad, Madam. I have no cause of mirth, Bard. What d'yee think of me? Think of thee, Bard; I think th'art honest, and canst shew a pleasant face sometimes, without an over joy within, but 'tis thy office. I know why you are so melancholy. Prethee why do'st think, Bard? You want a man. Why, thou art one? That's more than you know. 'Tis lng of men that maids are sad; Come then, and sweetly kisse them, Their lips invite, you will be mad To come too late and misse them. In their cheeks, are full-blowne roses To make garlands, to make posies: He that desires to be a father, Let him make haste before they fall, and gather: You stay too long, and do them wrong: If men would virgins strive to please, No maid this yeere should dye o'th greene disease. What, are you merrie yet? I am so far From being rais'd to mirth, that I encline To anger. Come, I'll sit you with a song, A lamentable ballad, of one lost Her maiden-head, and would needs have it cri'd, With all the marks, in hope to ha't agen. You were not sent to abuse me? A daintie aire too, I'll but tune my instrument. No more, or I'll complaine: sure hee knowes nothing of my dishonour. How mine owne thoughts fright me? Now you shall heare the dittie.