Shirley, James · published 1640 · first performed or written 1640 (Annals) not in BritDrama · Ogilby's Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 498 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
And so I take my leave. Ha! do I see the Queen, Emeria? Alas, poor Bard, the flatteries of this world Hath chained his sense: thus many self-loving natures, Prisoned in mists and errors, cannot see The way abroad that leads to happiness, Or truth, whose beamy hand should guide us in it. What a poor value do men set of heaven? Heaven, the perfection of all that can Be said, or thought, riches, delight, or harmony, Health, beauty, and all these not subject to The waste of time; but in their height eternal, Lost for a pension, or poor spot of earth, Favour of greatness, or an hour's faint pleasure: As men, in scorn of a true flame that's near, Should run to light their taper at a glow-worm. 'Tis she, and the good Bishop Patrick with her. Madam, the Prince Conallus. Oh let me kneel to you, and then to Heaven, That hath preserved you still to be my mother; For I believe you are alive, the fire Hath not defaced this monument of sweetness. My blessing and my prayers be still my child's, It was the goodness, son, of holy Patrick That rescued me from those imprisoning flames You speak of, his good Angel was our Conduct. To him that can dispense such blessings, mother, I must owe duty, and thus kneeling, pay it: May Angels still be near you. Rise, Conallus: My benediction on thee; be but what Thy Mother is, a Christian, and a guard Of Angels shall attend thee too; the fire We walked upon secure, and which is greater, scaped the immortal flames, in which black souls, After their ill-spent lives, are bound to suffer. Sir, you shall steer me, and my mother's blessed Example will become my imitation. But there's a piece of silent misery Is worth your comfort, mother, and his counsel; She is, I dare not name how much dishonoured, And should have been the partner of my bosom, Had not a cruel man forbid my happiness, And on that fair and innocent table poured Poison, above the dragon's blood, or Vipers. My humblest duty, Madam Dichu's Cell Is not far off, please you attend the Queen, We are bent thither. Yes: and as we walk, I'll tell you a sad story of my brother And this poor virgin. Come, I'll lead the way. With such a Guide we cannot fear to stray. Where are we yet Endarius? I cannot Inform you more, than that we are in the wood still. And we are lost, our fear to die i'th' sight Of men, hath brought us hither with our blood To quench the thirst of wolves: Or worse, to starve. We are in no fear to be apprehended Where none inhabit. Now that lust is punished, Which fed our hope, if we had stayed i'th' Temple To have polluted it, with foul embraces: How weariness, with travel, and some fasting Will tame the flesh. Stay here's a cave.
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)
And so I take my leave. Ha! doe I see the Queene, Emeria? Alas, poore Bard, the flatteries of this world Hath chain'd his sense: thus many selfe-loving natures, Prison'd in mists and errours, cannot see The way abroad that leads to happinesse, Or truth, whose beamie hand should guide us in it. What a poore value do men set of heaven? Heaven, the perfection of all that can Be said, or thought, riches, delight, or harmony, Health, beautie, and all these not subject to The waste of time; but in their height eternall, Lost for a pension, or poore spot of earth, Favour of greatnesse, or an houres faint pleasure: As men, in scorne of a true flame that's neere, Should run to light their taper at a glo-worne. 'Tis she, and the good Bishop Patrick with her. Madam, the Prince Conallus▪ Oh let me kneele to you, and then to Heaven, That hath preserv'd you still to be my mother; For I beleeve you are alive, the fire Hath not defac'd this monument of sweetnesse. My blessing and my prayers be still my childs, It was the goodnesse, son, of holy Patrick That rescu'd me from those impris'ning flames You speake of, his good Angell was our Conduct. To him that can dispense such blessings, mother, I must owe dutie, and thus kneeling, pay it: May Angels still be neere you. Rise, Conall us: My benediction on thee; be but what Thy Mother is, a Christian, and a guard Of Angels shall attend thee too; the fire We walk'd upon secure▪ and which is greater, Scap'd the immortall flames, in which black soules, After their ill-spent lives, are bound to suffer. Sir, you shall steere me, and my mothers blest Example will become my imitation. But there's a peece of silent miserie Is worth your comfort, mother, and his counsell; She is, I dare not name how much dishonour'd, And should have bene the partner of my bosome, Had not a cruell man forbid my happinesse, And on that faire and innocent table powr'd Poyson, above the Dragons bloud, or Vipers. My humblest dutie, Madam Dicbu's Cell Is not sar off, please you attend the Queene, We are bent thicher. Yes: and as we walk, I'll tell you a sad storie of my brother And this poore virgin. Come▪ I'll lead the way. With such a Guide we cannot feare to stray. Where are we yet Endarius? I cannot Informe you more, then that we are in the wood still. And we are lost, our feare to die i'th sight Of men, hath brought us hither with our blood To quench the thirst of wolves: Or worse, to starve. We are in no feare to be apprehended Where none inhabite. Now that lust is punish'd, Which fed our hope, if we had staid i'th Temple To have polluted it, with foule embraces: How wearinesse, with travell, and some fasting Will tame the flesh. Stay here's a cave.