Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T54: antony, caesar, anthony, cleopatra, antonius, love, death, die, heart, breast.
Stand ye still a while and I will go prove Whether that the god will be brought in love My lord how now look up lustily Here his a derling come by saint Antony And if it be your pleasure to marry Speke quickly for she may not tarry In faith I think ye may win her anon For she would speak with your lordshypen alone. Son that is not the thing at this time meant If her suit concern no cause of our hither resort Send her out of place, but if she ve bend To that purpose, he are her, and make us report. I count women lost if we love them not well For ye see god loveth them never a deal masters ye can not speak with the god. No, why. By my faith for his lordship is right busy With a piece of work that needs must be done Even now is he making of a new moon He saith your old moons be so far tasted That all the goodness of them is wasted Which of the great weet hath been most matter For old moons be like, they hold no water But for this new moon I durst lay my gown Except a few drops at her going down Ye get no rain till her arising Without it need and then no man's devising Could wish the fashion of rain to be so good Not gushinge out like gutters of Noyes flood But small drops sprynkling sortely on the ground Though they fell on a sponge they would give no sound This new moon shall make a thing spring more in this while Then a old moae shall while a man may go a mile By that time the god hath all made an end Ye shall see how the wether will amend By saint Anne he goeth to work even boldly I think him wise enough for he looketh holdely Wherefore master be ye now of good cheer For though in his presence ye can not appear Tell me your matter and let me alone May hap I will think on you when you be go en Forfoth the cause of my coming is this I am a woman right tayre as ye see In no creature more beauty then in me is And sins I am fair, fair would I keep me But the son in summer so sore doth burn me In winter the wind on every side me No part of the year wot I where to turn me But even in my house am I sayne to hide me And so do all other that beauty have In whose name at this time this suit I make Bescching Iupyter to grant that I crave Which is this that it may please him for our sake To send us wether close and temperate No son shine no frost nor wind to blow Then would we get the streets trim as a parate Ye should see how we would set ourself to show.
seed 43: T51 · seed 44: T48 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
¶Stande ye ſtyll a whyle and I wyll go proue Whether that the god wyll be brought in loue My lorde howe nowe loke vp luſtely Here his a derlynge come by ſaynt Antony And yf it be your pleaſure to mary Speke quyckely for ſhe maye nat tary In fayth I thynke ye may wynne her anone For ſhe wolde ſpeke with your lordſhypen alone. ☜Sonne that is nat the thynge at this tyme ment Yf her ſute concerne no cauſe of our hyther reſorte Sende her out of place, but yf ſhe ve bent To that purpoſe, he are her, and make vs reporte. ☜I counte women loſt yf we loue them not well For ye ſe god loueth them neuer a dele Mayſtres ye can not ſpeke with the god. ❧No, why. ¶By my fayth for his lordſhyp is ryght beſy With a peece of worke that nedes muſt be doone Euen nowe is he makynge of a newe moone He ſayth your olde moones be ſo farre taſted That all the goodnes of them is waſted Which of the greate wete hath ben moſte matter For olde moones be lyke, they holde no water But for this newe moone I durſt lay my gowne Excepte a fewe droppes at her goynge downe Ye get no rayne tyll her aryſynge Without it nede and then no mans deuyſynge Coulde wyſhe the faſhyon of rayne to be ſo good Not guſhinge out lyke gutters of Noyes fludde But ſmall droppes ſprynklynge ſortely on the grounde Though they fel on a ſponge they wolde gyue no ſounde This new moone ſhal make a thynge ſprynge more in this whyle Thē a old moae ſhall whyle a man may go a myle By that tyme the god hath all made an ende Ye ſhall ſe howe the wether wyll amende By ſaynt Anne he goeth to worke euen boldely I thynke hym wyſe ynough for he loketh holdely Wherfore mayſtres be ye nowe of good chere For though in his preſence ye can not appeare Tell me your matter and let me alone May happe I wyll thynke on you when you be go en ¶Forfoth the cauſe of my comynge is this I am a woman ryght tayre as ye ſe In no creature more beaute then in me is And ſyns I am fayre, fayre wolde I kepe me But the ſonne in ſomer ſo ſore doth burne me In wynter the winde on euery ſyde me No parte of the yere wote I where to turne me But euen in my houſe am I ſayne to hyde me And ſo do all other that beuty haue In whoſe name at this tyme this ſute I make Beſcchynge Iupyter to graunte that I craue Whiche is this that it may pleaſe hym for our ſake To ſende vs wether cloſe and temperate No ſonne ſhyne no froſt nor wynde to blowe Then wolde we get the ſtretes tryme as a parate Ye ſhulde ſe howe we wolde ſet our ſelfe to ſhewe.