Sicily and Naples, or The Fatal Union · chunk 22 of 38
Harding, Samuel · published 1640 · first performed or written 1640 (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Sure I should never do't. No madam? why are not men creatures As worthy Courtship, as we? Oh! but we are women! Oh! but we are proud. Shall I take't on your experience? Or your own:— hall whose voice is that? Hence my delight! thou art turned traitor to me: Thy strings conveyed a poison to my ears, And they drank deeply of it;— yet forbear, Alas it was myself, my inward grief, Thrown from the soul in often sighs, that made Thy sound infectious; 'tis with that as guilt, It grows still greater as 'tis borne about, And poisons every thing should work its cure. Is not this Sylvio, Calantha's Page? A lover grown? 'las pretty innocence. How finely sorrow shows there—! That, that passion Is well expressed; now sigh, then knock the breast. Excellent. Let's use the benefit of this shade, to hide ourselves, and secretly acquainted grow With the black story of his sad mishap. Felicia. How has thy name, thyself, thy friend deceived thee! That only wert acquainted with the sound Of happiness; mocked with a false report, Into a real misery; whose easy nature (The greatest foe unto itself, was flattered) Out of a virgin treasure; and then left Rifled of all; but (what grief now is preying on) A hapless life— yet cruel thief, thoust left So much of thee behind, as shall hereafter Tell to the world a dark and gloomy tale Of thy black perjury. Ha! does he riddle, Or play with grief? No 'tis too like a truth. methinks each thing I meet withal upbraids my fond credulity; The soaring lark hovers aloft i'th' air, At distance from th'enchanting glass, that Courts Her to her ruin! the fearful Quail Suspects and shuns the music of the pipe That sings her into fetters. Only poor I am sillier than these; Witness th'untimely swelling of this womb Pregnant to my disgrace;— As I lay hid In yonder thicket, the brambles gently swelled, And hid my shame, which yet each trivial wind But dallying with, persuaded from my covert! And left me naked to heaven's eye; the boughs Of the next willow clung about my head, As if they'd knit themselves into a garland, Which I should wear for my forsaken lover,— Very pretty! Were't not so sad. Oh you the weak supporters of my woes, Why d'ye fail me now at greatest need? Bear me at least into some hollow cave Where I may die, free from an after scorn; And not when I am dead, be found the shame Of our frail sex;— Oh! I faint, and fall, Just like the early branches of some tree, Whose hasty sap shoots into early fruit, Till the o'er laden boughs crack with the weight, Ere yet they be full ripe— I am amazed, a woman! Some Lady here o'th' Court, I'll lay my life on't; Let's to the Princess and inform her of it.
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)
Sure I ſhould never do't. No Madame? why are not men creatures As worthy Courtſhip, as wee? Oh! but we are women! Oh! but we are proud. Shall I take't on your experience? Or your owne:— hal whoſe voyce is that? Hence my delight! thou art turn'd traytour to mee: Thy ſtrings convey'd a poyſon to my eares, And they dranke deeply of it;— yet forbeare, Alas it was my ſelfe, my inward griefe, Throwne from the ſoule in often ſighs, that made Thy ſound infectious; 'tis with that as guilt, It growes ſtill greater as 'tis borne about, And poyſons every thing ſhould worke it's cure. Is not this Sylvio, Calantha's Page? A lover growne? las pretty innocence. How finely ſorrow ſhewes there — ! That, that paſſion Is well expreſl't; now ſigh, then knock the breaſt. Excellent. Let's uſe the benefit of this ſhade, to hide Our ſelves, and ſecretly acquainted grow With the blacke ſtorie of his ſad miſhap. Felicia. How has thy name, thy ſelfe, thy friend deceiv'd thee! That onely wert acquainted with the ſound Of happineſſe; mock't with a falſe report, Into a reall miſery; whoſe eaſie nature (The greateſt foe unto it ſelfe, was flatter'd) Out of a virgin treaſure; and then left Rifled of all; but (what griefe now is preying on) A hapleſſe life — yet cruell theefe, th'aſt left So much of thee behind, as ſhall hereafter Tell to the world a darke and gloomy tale Of thy blacke perjury. Ha! do's he riddle, Or play with griefe? No 'tis too like a truth. Me thinkes each thing I meete withall upbraids my fond credulity; The ſoaring larke hovers aloft i'th aire, At diſtance from th'inchanting glaſſe, that Courts Her to her ruine! the fearefull Quaile Suſpects and ſhuns the muſicke of the pipe That ſings her into fetters. Onely poore I am ſillier than theſe; Witneſſe th'untimely ſwelling of this wombe Pregnant to my diſgrace;— As I lay hid In yonder thicket, the brambles gently ſwell'd, And hid my ſhame, which yet each triviall winde But dallying with, perſwaded from my covert! And left mee naked to heaven's eye; the boughs Of the next willow clung about my head, As if they'd knit themſelves into a garland, Which I ſhould weare for my forſaken lover,— Very pretty! Wer't not ſo ſad. Oh you the weake ſupporters of my woes, Why do'e faile mee now at greateſt need? Beare mee at leaſt into ſome hollow cave Where I may die, free from an after ſcorne; And not when I am dead, be found the ſhame Of our fraile ſex;— Oh! I faint, and fall, Juſt like the early branches of ſome tree, Whoſe haſty ſap ſhootes into early fruit, Till the o're laden boughs cracke with the weight, Ere yet they bee full ripe — I am amaz'd, a woman! Some Lady here o'th Court, I'le lay my life on't; Let's to the Princeſſe and informe her of it.