The Spanish Tragedy (Hieronimo is Mad Again) · chunk 8 of 41
Kyd, Thomas · published 1592 · first performed or written 1587 [1585-1589; revised c.1597(?) and 1601-2] (Annals) tragedy · Unknown T59 Spanish courts: war, honour and courtshi typicality 0.79 · 509 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
I by conceit my freedom is enthralled, Then with conceit enlarge yourself again. What if conceit have laid my heart to gauge? Pay that you borrowed and recover it. I die if it return from whence it lies. A heartless man and live? A miracle. I Lady, love can work such miracles. Tush, tush my Lord, let go these ambages, And in plain terms acquaint her with your love. What boots complaint, when there's no remedy? Yes, to your gracious self must I complain, In whose fair answer lies my remedy, On whose perfection all my thoughts attend, On whose aspect mine eyes find beauty's bower, In whose translucent breast my heart is lodged. Alas my Lord these are but words of course. And but devise to drive me from this place. madam, your Glove. Thanks good Horatio, take it for thy pains. signor Horatio stooped in happy time. I reaped more grace than I deserved or hoped. My Lord, be not dismayed for what is passed. You know that women oft are humorous: These clouds will overblow with little wind. Let me alone, I'll scatter them myself: meanwhile let us devise to spend the time, In some delightful sports and reveling. The King my Lords is coming hither straight, To feast the Portingale Ambassador, Things were in readiness before I came. Then here it fits us to attend the King, To welcome hither our Ambassador, And learn my Father and my country's health. See Lord Ambassador, how Spain entreats Their prisoner Balthazar, thy viceroys Son: We pleasure more in kindness then in wars. Sad is our King, and Portingale laments, Supposing that Don Balthazar is slain. So am I slain by beauty's tyranny. You see my Lord how Balthazar is slain. I frolic with the Duke of Castiles Son, Wrapped every hour in pleasures of the Court, And graced with favours of his Majesty. Put off your greetings till our feast be done, Now come and sit with us and taste our cheer. Sit down young Prince, you are our second guest: Brother sit down, and Nephew take your place, signor Horatio wait thou upon our cup, For well thou hast deserved to be honoured. Now Lordings fall too, Spain is Portugal, And Portugal is Spain, we both are friends, Tribute is paid, and we enjoy our right. But where is old Hieronimo our Marshal, He promised us in honour of our guest, To grace our banquet with some pompous jest. Hieronimo, this mask contents mine eye, Although I sound not well the mystery. The first armed Knight that hung his Scutcheon up, Was English Robert Earl of Glocester, Who when king Stephen bore sway in Albion, Arrived with five and twenty thousand men, In Portingale, and by success of war, Enforced the King then but a Sarasin, To bear the yoke of the English Monarchy. My Lord of Portingale, by this you see, That which may comfort both your King and you, And make your late discomfort seem the less. But say Hieronimo, what was the next?
seed 43: T61 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I by conceit my freedome is enthralde, Then with conceite enlarge your selfe again What if conceite haue laid my hart to gage? Pay that you borrowed and recouer it. I die if it returne from whence it lyes. A hartles man and liue? A miracle. I Lady, loue can worke such miracles. Tush, tush my Lord, let goe these ambages, And in plaine tearmes acquaint her with your loue. What bootes complaint, when thers no remedy? Yes, to your gratious selfe must I complaine, In whose faire answere lyes my remedy, On whose perfection all my thoughts attend, On whose aspect nine eyes finde beauties bowre, In whose translucent brest my hart is lodgde. Alas my Lord these are hut words of course. And but deuise to driue me from this place. Madame, your Gloue. Thanks good Horatio, take it for thy paines. Signior Horatio stoopt in happie time. I reapt more grace then I deseru'd or hop'd. My Lord, be not dismaid for what is past. You know that women oft are humerous: These clouds will ouerblow with little winde. Let me alone, Ile scattr them my selfe: Meane while let vs deuise to spend the time, In some delightfull sports and reuelling. The King my Lords is comming hither straight, To feast the Portingall Embassadour, Things were in readines before I came. Then heere it fits vs to attend the King, To welcome hither our Embassadour, And learne my Father and my Countries health. See Lord Embassador, how Spaine intreats Their prisoner Balthazar, thy Viceroyes Sonne: We pleasure more in kindenes then in warres. Sad is our King, and Portingale laments, Supposing that Don Balthazar is slaine. So am I slaine by beauties tirannie. You see my Lord how Balthazar is slaine. I frolike with the Duke of Castiles Sonne, Wrapt euery houre in pleasurs of the Court, And graste with fauours of his Maiestie. Put off your greetings till our feast be done, Now come and sit with vs and taste our cheere. Sit downe young Prince, you are our second guest: Brother sit downe, and Nephew take your place, Signior Horatio waite thou vpon our cup, For well thou hast deserued to be honored. Now Lordings fall too, Spaine is Portugall, And Portugall is Spaine, we both are freends, Tribute is paid, and we enioy our right. But where is olde Hieronimo our Marshall, He pomised vs in honor of our guest, To grace our banquet with some pompousiest. Hieronimo, this maske contents mine eie, Although I sound not well the misterie. The first arm'd Knight that hung his Scutchin vp, Was English Robert Earle of Glocester, Who when king Stephen bore sway in Albion, Arriued with fiue and twenty thousand men, In Portingale, and by successe of warre, Enforced the King then but a Sarasin, To beare the yoake of the English Monarchie. My Lord of Portingale, by this you see, That which may comfort both your King and you, And make your late discomfort seeme the lesse. But say Hieronimo, what was the next?