The Spanish Tragedy (Hieronimo is Mad Again) · chunk 9 of 41
Kyd, Thomas · published 1592 · first performed or written 1587 [1585-1589; revised c.1597(?) and 1601-2] (Annals) tragedy · Unknown unassigned nearest T43 York and Lancaster: dynastic claims and · 521 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T43: henry, king, richard, warwick, york, edward, father, duke, crown, son.
The second Knight that hung his Scutcheon up, Was Edmond Earl of Kent in Albion, When English Richard wore the Diadem. He came likewise and razed Lisbon walls, And took the King of Portingale in fight: For which, and other such like service done, He after was created Duke of York. This is another special argument, That Portingale may deign to bear our yoke, When it by little England hath been yoked: But now Hieronimo what were the last? The third and last not least in our account, Was as the rest a valiant Englishman, Brave Iohn of Gaunt the Duke of Lancaster. As by his Scutcheon plainly may appear. He with a puissant army came to Spain, And took our King of Castille prisoner. This is an argument for our Viceroy, That Spain may not insult for her success, Since English warriors likewise conquered Spain, And made them bow their knees to Albion. Hieronimo, I drink to thee for this device. Which hath pleased both the Ambassador and me: Pledge me Hieronomo, if thou love the King. My Lord, I fear we sit but overlong. Unless our dainties were more delicate. But welcome are you to the best we have. Now let us in that you may be dispatched, I think our council is already set. Come we for this from depth of under ground, To see him feast that gave me my death's wound? These pleasant sights are sorrow to my soul, Nothing but league, and love and banqueting? Be still Andrea ere we go from hence, I'll turn their friendship into fell despite, Their love to mortal hate, their day tonight, Their hope into despair, their peace to war, Their joys to pain, their bliss to misery. MY Lord, though Bel-imperia seem thus coy, Let reason hold you in your wonted joy: In time the savage Bull sustains the yoke, In time all haggard Hawks will stoop to lure, In time small wedges cleave the hardest Oak, In time the flint is pierced with softest shower, And she in time will fall from her disdain, And rue the sufferance of your friendly pain. No, she is wilder and more hard withal, Then beast, or bird, or tree, or stony wall. But wherefore blot I Bel-imperia's name? It is my fault, not she that merits blame. My feature is not to content her sight, My words are rude and work her no delight. The lines I send her are but harsh and ill, Such as do drop from Pan and Marsias quill. My presents are not of sufficient cost, And being worthless all my labours lost. Yet might she love me for my valiancy, I but that's slandered by captivity. Yet might she love me to content her fire: I but her reason masters his desire. Yet might she love me as her brother's friend, ay, but her hopes aim at some other end. Yet might she love me to uprear her state, I, but perhaps she hopes some nobler mate. Yet might she love me as her beauteous thrall, ay, but I fear she cannot love at all.
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)
The second Knight that hung his Scutchin vp, Was Edmond Earle of Kent in Albion, When English Richard wore the Diadem. He came likewise and razed Lisbon walles, And tooke the King of Portingale in fight: For which, and other such like seruice done, He after was created Duke of Yorke. This is another speciall argument, That Portingale may daine to beare our yoake, When it by little England hath beene yoakt: But now Hieronimo what were the last? The third and last not least in our account, Was as the restavaliant Englishman, Braue Iohn of Gant the Duke of Lancaster. As by his Scutchin plainely may appeare. He with a puissant armie came to Spaine, And tooke our King of Castile prisoner. This is an argument for our Viceroy, That Spaine may not insult for her successe, Since English warriours likewise conquered Spaine, And made them bow their knees to Albion. Hieronimo, I dtinke to thee for this deuise. Which hath pleasde both the Embassador and me: Pledge me Hieronomo, if thou loue the King. My Lord, I feare we sit but ouer-long. Vnlesse our dainties were more delicate. But welcome are you to the best we haue. Now let vs in that you may be dispatcht, I think our councell is already set. Come we for this from depth of vnder ground, To see him feast that gaue me my deaths wound? These pleasant sights are sorrow to my soule, Nothing but league, and loue and banqueting? Be still Andrea ere we goe from hence, Ile turne their freendship into fell despight, Their loue to mortall hate, their day to night, Their hope into dispaire, their peace to warre, Their ioyes to paine, their blisse to miserie. MY Lord, though Bel-imperia seeme thus coy, Let reason holde you in your wonted ioy: In time the sauage Bll sustaines the yoake, In time all haggard Hawkes will stoope to lue, In time small wedges cleaue the hardest Oake, In time the flint is pearst with softest shower, And she in time will fall from her disdaine, And rue the sufferance of your freendly paine. No, she is wilder and more hard withall, Then beast, or bird, or tree, or stony wall. But wherefore blot I Bel-imperias name? It is my fault, not she that merites blame. My feature is not to content her sight, My wodres are rude and worke her no delight. The lines I send her are but harsh and ill, Such as doe drop from Pan and Marsias quill. My presents are not of sufficient cost, And being worthles all my labours lost. Yet might she loue me for my valiancie, I but thats slaundred by captiuitie. Yet might she loue me to content her fire: I but her reason masters his desire. Yet might she loue me as her brothers freend, I, but her hopes aime at some other end. Yet might she loue me to vpreare her state, I▪ but perhaps she hopes some nobler mate. Yet might she loue me as her beauteous thrall, I, but I feare she cannot loue at all.