Greene, Robert · published 1594 · first performed or written 1591 (Annals) romance · Queen Elizabeth's Men (on tour); Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men (in London) · before the Court unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 470 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
My daughter Lords, why she's exiled, And her grieved father is content to lose The pleasance of his age to countenance law. Not only exile shall await Angelica, But death and bitter death shall follow her, Then yield us right Marsillus, or our swords Shall make thee fear to wrong the Peers of France. Words cannot daunt me Princes be assured, But law and justice shall overrule in this, And I will bury father's name and love, The hapless maid banished from out my Land, Wanders about in woods and ways unknown, Her if ye find with fury persecute, I now disdain the name to be her Father, Lords of France what would you more of me. Marsillus we commend thy Princely mind, And will report thy justice through the world, Come Peers of France let's seek Angelica, Left for a spoil to our revenging thoughts. Orgalio, is not my love like those purple coloured swans, That gallop by the Coach of Cynthia. Yes marry is she my Lord. Is not her face silvered like that milk-white shape, When love came dancing down to Semele. It is my Lord. Then go thy ways and climb up to the Clouds, And tell Apollo that Orlando sits, Making of verses for Angelica. And if he do deny to send me down The shirt which Deianeira sent to Hercules, To make me brave upon my wedding day; Tell him I'll pass the Alps, and up to Meroe, (I know he knows that watery lakish hill) And pull the harp out of the minstrels hands, And pawn it unto lovely Proserpine, That she may fetch the fair Angelica. But my Lord Apollo is asleep & will not hear me, Then tell him he is a sleepy knave: But sirrah let nobody trouble me, for I must lie down a while and talk with the stars. What old acquaintance well met. Ho you would have me play Angelica again, would ye not? Not, but I can tell thee where thou mayest earn two or three shillings this morning, even with the turning of a hand. Two or three shillings, tush thou wot cozen me thou, but and thou canst tell where I may earn a groat, I'll give thee six pence for thy pains. Then play a fit of mirth to my Lord. Why he is mad still is he not. No, no, come play. At which side doth he use to give his reward. Why of any side. Doth he not use to throw the chamber pot sometimes? 'twould grieve me he should wet my fiddle strings. Tush I warrant thee. Who is this, Shan Cuttelero? heartily welcome, Shan Cuttelero. No sir, you should have said Shan the Fidideldero. What, hast thou brought me my sword? A sword? No no sir, that's my fiddle.
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)
My daughter Lords, why shees exilde, And her grieud father is content to lose The pleasance of his age to countnance law. Not onely exile shall await Angelica, But death and bitter death shall follow her, Then yeeld vs right Marsillus, or our swords Shal make thee feare to wrong the Pieres of France. Wordes cannot daunt mee Princes bee as| surde, But law and iustice shall ouerrule in this, And I will burie fathers name and loue, The haples maide bannisht from out my Land, Wanders about in woods and waies vnknowne, Her if yee finde with furie persecute, I now disdaine the name to be her Father, Lords of France what would you more of me. Marsillus wee commende thy Princely minde, And will report thy iustice through the world, Come Peeres of France lets seeke Angelica, Left for a spoile to our reuenging thoughts. Orgalio, is not my loue like those purple coloured swans, That gallop by the Coach of Cynthia. Yes marry is shee my Lord. Is not her face siluerd like that milke-white shape, When loue came dauncing downeto Semele. It is my Lord. Then goe thy waies and clime vp to the Clowds, And tell Apollo that Orlando sits, Making of verses for Angelica. And if he doo denie to send me downe The shirt which Deianyra sent to Hercules, To make me braue vpon my wedding day; Tell him Ile passe the Alpes, and vp to Meroe, (I know he knowes that watrie lakish hill) And pull the harpe out of the minstrelis hands, And pawne it vnto louely Proserpine, That she may fetch the faire Angelica. But my Lord Apollo is a sleepe & will not heare me, Then tell him he is a sleepy knaue: But sirra let no body trouble mee, for I must lie downe a while and talke with the starres. What old acquaintance well met. Ho you would haue me play Angelica againe, would ye not? Not, but I can tell thee where thou mayest earne two or three shillings this morning, euen with the turning of a hand. Two or three shillinges, tush thou wot cossen me thou, but and thou canst tell where I may earne a groate, Ile giue thee sixe pence for thy paines. Then play a fit of mirth to my Lord. Why he is mad still is he not. No, no, come play. At which side dooth he vse to giue his reward. Why of anie side. Doth he not vse to throw the chamber pot sometimes? Twould greeue me he should wet my fiddle strings. Tush I warrant thee. Who is this, Shan Cuttelero? hartely welcome, Shan Cuttelero. No sir, you should haue said Shan the Fidideldero. What, hast thou brought me my sword? A sword? No no sir, thats my fiddle.