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 · 472 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
Hence, foolish Bard. A poor wench was sighing, and weeping amain, And fain would she have her virginity again, Lost she knew not how; in her sleep (as she said) She went to bed pure, but she rise not a maid: She made fast the door, She was certain before, She laid herself down in the bed: But when she awaked, the truth is stark-naked, Oh she missed her maidenhead. Ha, the young Prince, I'll tarry no longer w'ee. Now to the Queen. Emeria, prithee do not hide thy face From me, 'tis more than common sorrow makes Thee look thus: If the queen's misfortunes have Darkened thy face, I suffer too in that. If for thyself thou weep'st, my almost ebbing Grief thou wilt enforce back, and beget New seas, in which, made high by one strong sigh Of thine, I meet a watery sepulchre. My mother's fate commands my grief, but thine A greater suffering, since our hearts are one, And there wants nothing, but a ceremony To justify it to the world. Call back Your promises, my Lord, they were ill placed On me, for I have nothing to deserve'em. If thou be'st constant to thyself, and art Emeria still— That word hath wounded me. Why, art not thou thyself? I have the shape still, But not the inward part. Am I so miserable, To have my faith suspected, for I dare not Think thou canst sin by any change: What act Have I done my Emeria? or who hath Poisoned thy pure soul with suggestion Of my revolt? Apostasy I'll call it, For next our gods, thou art my happiness. Now, my dear Lord, and let me add thus much In my own part, I never loved you better; Never with more religious thoughts and honour Looked on you; my heart never made a vow So blessed in my hopes, as that I gave you, And I suspect not yours. What then can make thee, My Emeria, less; or me? Thou dost affright— Yes, I am less, and have that taken from me Hath almost left me nothing, or if any, So much unworthy you, that you would curse me, Should I betray you to receive Emeria. Do not destroy me so, be plain. Then thus— But if I drop a tear or two, pray pardon me: Did not the story touch myself, I should Weep for it in another; you did promise To marry me, my Lord. I did, and will. Alas, I have lost. What? The portion that I promised to bring with me. Do I value thy wealth? Oh, but the treasure I lost, you will expect, and scorn me ever, Because you have it not; yet heaven is witness 'Tis not my fault, a thief did force it from me, Oh my dear Lord.
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)
Hence, foolish Bard. A poore wench was sighing, and weeping amaine, And faine would she have her virginitie againe, Lost she knew not how; in her sleep (as she said) She went to bed pure, but she rise not a maid: She made fast the doore, She was certaine before, She laid her selfe downe in the bed: But when she awaked, the truth is stark-naked, Oh she mist her maiden-head. Ha, the young Prince, I'll tarrie no longer w'ee. Now to the Queene. Emeria, prethee doe not hide thy face From me, 'tis more than common sorrow makes Thee look thus: If the Queenes mis-fortunes have Darken'd thy face, I suffer too in that. If for thy selfe thou weep'st, my almost ebbing Griefe thou wilt enforce back, and beget New seas, in which, made high by one strong sigh Of thine, I meet a watry sepulcher. My mothers fate commands my griefe, but thine A greater suffering, since our hearts are one, And there wans nothing, but a ceremony To justifie it to the world. Call back Your promises, my Lord, they were ill plac'd On me, for I have nothing to deserve'em. If thou be'st constant to thy selfe, and art Emeria still— That word hath wounded me. Why, art not thou thy selfe? I have the shape still, But not the inward part. Am I so miserable, To have my faith suspected, for I dare not Think thou canst sin by any change: What act Have I done my Emeria? or who hath Poyson'd thy pure soule with suggestion Of my revolt? Apostasie I'll call it, For nxt our gods, thou art my happinesse. Now, my deere Lord, and let mee adde thus much In my owne part, I never lov'd you better; Never with more religious thoughts and honour Look'd on you; my heart never made a vow So blessed in my hopes, as that I gave you, And I suspect not yours. What then can make thee, My Emeria, lesse; or me? Thou do'st affright— Yes, I am lesse, and have that taken from me Hath almost left me nothing, or if any, So much unworthy you, that you would curse me, Should I betray you to receive Emeria. Doe not destroy me so, e plaine. Then thus— But if I drop a teare or two, pray pardon me: Did not the story touch my selfe, I should Weep for it in another; you did promise To marrie me, my Lord. I did, and will. Alas, I have lost. What? The portion that I promis'd to bring with me. Do I value thy wealth? Oh, but the treasure I lost, you wil expect, and scorne me ever, Because you have it not; yet heaven is witnesse 'Tis not my fault, a thiefe did force it from me, Oh my deere Lord.