Whetstone, George · published 1578 · first performed or written 1578 [1576-1579] (Annals) comedy · Unacted unassigned nearest T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil · 531 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
How so th'intent, is construed in offence, The Proverb says that ten good turns lie dead, And one ill deed, ten times beyond pretence, By envious tongues, report abroad doth spread: Andrugio so, my fame, shall valued be, Despite will blaze my crime, but not the cause: And thus although I fain would set thee free, Poor wench I fear, the gripe of slanders paws. Nay sweet sister more slander would insawe, Your spotless life, to reave your brother's breath: When you have power, for to enlarge the same, Once in your hands, doth lie my life, and death, Way that I am, the self same flesh you are, Think I once gone, our house will go to wrack: Know forced faults, for slander need not care: Look you for blame, if I quail through your lack. Consider well, my great extremity, If other wise, this doom I could revoke: I would not spare, for any ieberdye: To free thee wench, from this same heavy yoke. But ah. I see, else, no way saves my life. And yet his hope, may further thy consent, He said, he may percase make thee his wife, And 'tis likely, he can not be content With one night's joy: if love he after seeks, And I discharged, if thou aloof then be, Before be loose thyself, that so he leeks. No dought but he, to marriage, will agreed. And shall I stick to stoop, to Promos will, Since my brother enjoyeth life thereby? Not, although it doth my credit kill, Ere that he should, myself would choose to die. My Andrugio, take comfort in distress, Cassandra is won, thy faunsome great to pay, Such care she hath, thy thraldom to release: As she consenteth, her honour for to slay. Farewell, I must, my virgin's weeds forsake: And like a page, to Promos lewd repair. My good sister to God I thee betake, To whom I pray, that comfort change thy care. 'tis more than strange to see Lord Promos plight, He fryskes about, as birds beware in his breech. Even now he seems (through hope) to taste delight, And strait (through fear) where he claws it doth not itch. He museth now, straight ways the man doth sing. (A sight in sooth, unseemly for his age:) He longing looks, when any news shall bring, To speak with him, without there waits a page, O worthy wit (fit for a judges head) Unto a man to change a shiftles maid, Wink not on me, 'twas his, and not my deed: His, nay, his rule, this Metamorphos made, But Holla tongue, no more of this I pray, Non bonus est, ludere cum sanctis. The quietest, and the thryftiest course they say, Is, not to check, but praise great men's amiss, I find it true, for soothing Promos vain: None like myself, is lykte in his conceit, While favour last, then good, I fist for gain: (For Grace will not bite always at my bait) And as I wish, at hand, good Fortune, see: Here comes Phallax, and Gripax, but what's this, As good, as fair handsel, God grant it be: The knaves bring a Woman, Coram nobis.
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)
How ſo th'intent, is conſtrued in offence, The Prouerbe ſaies that tenne good turnes lye dead, And one yll deede, tenne tymes beyonde pretence, By enuious tounges, report abrode doth ſpread: Andrugio ſo, my fame, ſhall vallewed bee, Diſpite wyll blaſe my crime, but not the cauſe: And thus although I fayne would ſet thée free, Poore wench I feare, the grype of ſlaunders pawes. Nay ſweete ſiſter more ſlaunder would inſawe, Your ſpotles lyfe, to reaue your brothers breath: When you haue powre, for to enlarge the ſame, Once in your handes, doth lye my lyfe, and death, Way that I am, the ſelfe ſame fleſh you are, Thinke I once gone, our houſe will goe to wrack: Knowe forced faultes, for ſlaunder neede not care: Looke you for blame, if I quaile through your lack. Conſider well, my great extremitie, If other wiſe, this doome I could reuoke: I would not ſpare, for any ieberdye: To free thee wench, from this ſame heauy yoke. But ah. I ſee, elſe, no way ſaues my life. And yet his hope, may further thy conſent, He ſayde, he maye percaſe make thee his wife, And t'is likelie, he can not be content With one nights ioye: if loue he after ſeekes, And I diſchargd, if thou aloofe then be, Before be loſe thy ſelfe, that ſo he leekes. No dought but he, to marryage, wyll agree. And ſhall I ſticke to ſtoupe, to Promos wyll, Since my brother inioyeth lyfe thereby? No, although it doth my credit kyll, Ere that he ſhould, my ſelfe would chuſe to dye. My Andrugio, take comfort in diſtreſſe, Caſſandra is wonne, thy faunſome great to paye, Such care ſhe hath, thy thraldome to releace: As ſhe conſentes, her honor for to ſlay. Farewell, I muſt, my virgins weedes forſake: And lyke a page, to Promos lewde repayre. My good ſiſter to God I thee betake, To whome I pray, that comforte change thy care. Tis more then ſtraunge to ſee Lord Promos plight, He fryſkes abought, as byrdes ware in his breech. Euen now he ſeemes (through hope) to taſte delight, And ſtraight (through feare) where he clawes it doth not ytch. He muſeth now, ſtrayght wayes the man doth ſing. (A ſight in ſooth, vnſeemely for his age:) He longing lookes, when any newes ſhal bring, To ſpeake with him, without there waytes a page, O worthy wit (fyt for a Iudges head) Vnto a man to chaunge a ſhiftles mayde, Wyncke not on me, twas his, and not my deede: His, nay, his rule, this Metamorphos made, But Holla tongue, no more of this I pray, Non bonus eſt, ludere cum ſanctis. The quieteſt, and the thryftieſt courſe they ſay, Is, not to checke, but prayſe great mens amys, I finde it true, for ſoothing Promos vaine: None lyke my ſelfe, is lykte in his conceyte, While fauour laſt, then good, I fiſt for gaine: (For Grace wyll not byte alwayes at my bayte) And as I wiſh, at hande, good Fortune, ſee: Here coms Phallax, and Gripax, but what's this, As good, as fayre handſell, God graunt it bee: The knaues bring a Woman, Coram nobis.