Marlowe, Christopher · published 1590 · first performed or written 1588 [1587-1588] (Annals) tragedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 454 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Distressed Olympia, whose weeping eyes Since thy arrival here beheld no Sun, But closed within the compass of a tent, Hath stained thy cheeks, & made thee look like death device some means to rid thee of thy life. Rather than yield to his detested suit, Whose drift is only to dishonour thee. And since this earth, dewed with thy brinish tears, Affords no herbs, whose taste may poison thee, Nor yet this air, beat often with thy sighs, Contagious smells, and vapours to infect thee, Nor thy close Cave a sword to murder thee, Let this invention be the instrument. Well met Olympia, I sought thee in my tent But when I saw the place obscure and dark, Which with thy beauty thou wast wont to light, Enraged, I ran about the fields for thee, Supposing, amorous Ioue had sent his son, The winged Hermes, to convey thee hence: But now I find thee, and that fear is past. Tell me Olympia, wilt thou grant my suit? My Lord and husbands death, with my sweet sons, With whom I buried all affections, Save grief and sorrow which torment my heart, Forbids my mind to entertain a thought That tends to love, but meditate on death, A fitter subject for a pensive soul. Olympia, pity him, in whom thy looks Have greater operation and more force Than Cynthia's in the watery wilderness, For with thy view my joys are at the full, And ebb again, as thou depart'st from me. Ah, pity me my Lord, and draw your sword, Making a passage for my troubled soul, Which beats against this prison to get out, And meet my husband and my loving son. Nothing, but still thy husband and thy son? Leave this my Love, and listen more to me, Thou shalt be stately Queen of fair Argier, And clothed in costly cloth of massy gold, Upon the marble turrets of my Court Sit like to Venus in her chair of state, Commanding all thy princely eye desires, And I will cast off arms and sit with thee, Spending my life in sweet discourse of love. No such discourse is pleasant in mine ears, But that where every period ends with death, And every line begins with death again: I cannot love to be an Empress. Nay Lady, then if nothing will prevail, I'll use some other means to make you yield, Such is the sudden fury of my love, I must and will be pleased, and you shall yield: Come to the tent again. Stay good my Lord, and will you save my honour, I'll give your Grace a present of such price, As all the world cannot afford the like. What is 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)
DIstrest Olympia, whose weeping eies Since thy arriuall here beheld no Sun, But closde within the compasse of a tent, Hath stain'd thy cheekes, & made thee look like death Deuise some meanes to rid thee of thy life. Rather than yeeld to his detested suit, Whose drift is onely to dishonor thee. And since this earth, dew'd with thy brinish teares, Affoords no hearbs, whose taste may poison thee, Nor yet this aier, beat often with thy sighes, Contagious smels, and vapors to infect thee, Nor thy close Caue a sword to murther thee, Let this inuention be the instrument. Wel met Olympia, I sought thee in my tent But when I saw the place obscure and darke, Which with thy beauty thou wast woont to light, Enrag'd, I ran about the fields for thee, Supposing, amorous Ioue had sent his sonne, The winged Hermes, to conuay thee hence: But now I finde thee, and that feare is past. Tell me Olympia, wilt thou graunt my suit? My Lord and husbandes death, with my sweete sons, With whom I buried al affections, Saue griefe and sorrow which torment my heart, Forbids my mind to entertaine a thought That tends to loue, but meditate on death, A fitter subiect for a pensiue soule. Olympia, pitie him, in whom thy looks Haue greater operation and more force Than Cynthias in the watery wildernes, For with thy view my ioyes are at the full, And eb againe, as thou departst from me. Ah, pity me my Lord, and draw your sword, Making a passage for my troubled soule, Which beates against this prison to get out, And meet my husband and my louing sonne. Nothing, but stil thy husband and thy sonne? Leaue this my Loue, and listen more to me, Thou shalt be stately Queene of faire Argier, And cloth'd in costly cloath of massy gold, Vpon the marble turrets of my Court Sit like to Venus in her chaire of state, Commanding all thy princely eie desires, And I will cast off armes and sit with thee, Spending my life in sweet discourse of loue. No such discourse is pleasant in mine eaxes, But that where euery period ends with death, And euery line begins with death againe: I cannot loue to be an Emperesse. Nay Lady, then if nothing wil preuaile, Ile vse some other means to make you yeeld, Such is the sodaine fury of my loue, I must and wil be pleasde, and you shall yeeld: Come to the tent againe. Stay good my Lord, and wil you saue my honor, Ile giue your Grace a present of such price, As all the world cannot affoord the like. What is it.