Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
My Lord, I praise not myself, yet I can prove by this that they are in love. As how? Grief always follows love; if grief follow love, love goes before, ergo, they're in love. So, suppose now— (My good Lord) I do suppose. What? Even what your Lordship pleases. Suppose then, any of 'em should be in love with me, would you?— Yes my Lord. What? Any thing.— Bring her to my chamber. But pimp, it will contaminate.— A fool's head, will it not? I say you shall bring her. Nay then I will not bring her; slid, shall bring her? shall bring her? Nay but Fun.— Pox on him, he'll discover me. Bid me forsake heaven, my virtue, honour, And all that's good— Fie, fie. You do not see me weep, Distil mine eyes into a dew, I will not shed one tear, not vent a sigh, No not in private. So, this becomes you— I have shook off all Those weights that clogged my bosom— we can smile, Shows it not hand some? Such a smile ne'er blessed The cheeks of Peace. How art thou lost Ursini! Discredited to truth by this vile flattery! Thou shouldst have said, heaven smiled, when set with clouds Black as nights swarthy mantle, when the air Breaks out in hideous cracks, that cleave the Temple, And strike dead the devout Priest at the Altar: For this an easy faith would have believed, As having less of contradiction in't: My soul is rapt with furies, here they gnaw, Like knotted Adders wrapped about my heart. Oh! my sides swell as they would break, they want A hoop, lend me your arm,— Circled in these. Embraces, you are safe: collect yourself (Dear Prince;) and let not passion triumph in The conquest of your reason; think of your honour, Your name, and spreading glories; how they die. I'm black and ugly; all A whole stain already: Oh Calantha, Thou goest to heaven, to tell Ferrando killed thee; And those blessed troops of Saints will wreak thy murder, There's not one but suffers in't. The King! Help here— Oh! Bentivoglio, come, Come practice here, and raise yourself a trophy In his recovery. Whence this sudden fit?— My Lord Ferrando: Oh Calantha. She lives, Calantha lives. What breath is that, that mocks us With a false sound of our Calantha's life? She lives; yet let old time add to his age But one short pair of minutes, she shall be No more: No more distracted: next hour shall render Calantha to your bosom fair, and well; As rich in all the ornaments of mind, As when she first blessed Naples with her presence. Truth's but a name: 'tis false, by heaven 'tis false; Did not I leave her sunk upon her bed, Into a soft, but everlasting sleep? So you supposed; and I have caused her women To wrap her in her shroud, then sit down by her, To weep, and pray, as if 'twere for the dead.
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)
My Lord, I praiſe not my ſelfe, yet I can prove by this that they are in love. As how? Griefe alwayes followes love; if griefe follow love, love go's before, ergo, they're in love. So, ſuppoſe now— (My good Lord) I doe ſuppoſe. What? Even what your Lordſhip pleaſes. Suppoſe then, any of 'em ſhould be in love with mee, would you? — Yes my Lord. What? Any thing.— Bring her to my chamber. — But pimpe, it will contaminate.— A fooles head, will it not? I ſay you ſhall bring her. Nay then I will not bring her; ſlid, ſhall bring her? ſhall bring her? Nay but Fun.—Pox on him, he'le diſcover mee. Bid me forſake heaven, my vertue, honour, And all that's good — Fie, fie. You doe not ſee mee weepe, Diſtill mine eyes into a dew, I will not ſhed one teare, not vent a ſigh, No not in private. So, this becomes you — I have ſhooke off all Thoſe weights that clogg'd my boſome— Wee can ſmile, Shewes it not hand ſome? Such a ſmile nere bleſt The cheekes of Peace. How art thou loſt Ʋrſini! Diſcredited to truth by this vile flattery! Thou ſhouldſt have ſaid, heaven ſmil'd, when ſet with clouds Blacke as nights ſwarthy mantle, when the aire Breakes out in hideous crackes, that cleave the Temple, And ſtrike dead the devout Prieſt at the Altar: For this an eaſie faith would have beleev'd, As having leſſe of contradiction in't: My ſoule is rapt with furies, here they gnaw, Like knotted Adders wrapt about my heart. Oh! my ſides ſwell as they would breake, they want A hoope, lend mee your arme, — Circled in theſe. Embraces, you are ſafe: collect your ſelfe (Deare Prince;) and let not paſſion triumph in The conqueſt of your reaſon; thinke of your honour, Your name, and ſpreading glories; how they dye. I'me blacke and ugly; all A whole ſtaine already: Oh Calantha, Thou goeſt to heaven, to tell Ferrando kill'd thee; And thoſe bleſt troopes of Saints will wreake thy murder, There's not one but ſuffers in't. —The King! Helpe here — Oh! Bentivoglio, come, Come practice here, and raiſe your ſelfe a trophey In his recovery. Whence this ſudden fit? — My Lord Ferrando: Oh Calantha. She lives, Calantha lives. What breath is that, that mockes us With a falſe ſound of our Calantha's life? She lives; yet let old time adde to his age But one ſhort paire of minutes, ſhee ſhall be No more: No more diſtracted: next houre ſhall render Calantha to your boſome faire, and well; As rich in all the ornaments of minde, As when ſhe firſt bleſt Naples with her preſence. Truth's but a name: 'tis falſe, by heaven 'tis falſe; Did not I leave her ſunke upon her bed, Into a ſoft, but everlaſting ſleepe? So you ſuppos'd; and I have caus'd her women To wrap her in her ſhrowd, then ſit downe by her, To weepe, and pray, as if 'twere for the dead.