Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
Thou god of heaven prevent my country's fall. These stays and lets to pleasure, plague my thoughts, Forcing my grievous wounds a new to bleed: But care that hath transported me so far, Fair Ida is dispersed in thought of thee: Whose answer yields me life, or breeds my death: Yond comes the messenger of weal or woe. Ateukin What news? The adamant o King will not be filled, But by itself, and beauty that exceeds, By some exceeding favour must be wrought, Ida is coy as yet, and doth repine, Objecting marriage, honour, fear, and death, she's holy, wise, and too precise for me. Are these thy fruits of wits, thy sight in Art? Thine eloquence? thy policy? thy drift? To mock thy Prince, then caitiff pack thee hence, Art? And let me die devoured in my love. Good Lord how rage gainsayeth reasons power, My dear, my gracious, and beloved Prince, The essence of my suit, my God on earth, Sit down and rest yourself, appease your wrath, lest with a frown ye wound me to the death: Oh that I were included in my grave, That either now to save my PRINCE's life, Must counsel cruelty, or lose my King. Why sirrah, is there means to move her mind? Oh should I not offend my royal liege. Tell all, spare nought, so I may gain my love. Alas my soul why art thou torn in twain, For fear thou talk a thing that should displease? Tur, speak what so thou wilt I pardon thee. How kind a word, how courteous is his grace: Who would not die to succour such a king? My liege, this lovely maid of modest mind, Could well incline to love, but that she fears, Fair Dorothea's power, your grace doth know, Your wedlock is a mighty let to love: Were Ida sure to be your wedded wife, That then the twig would bow, you might command. Lady's love, presents pomp and high estate. Ah Ateukin, how should we display this let? Tut mighty Prince, oh that I might be whist Why dalliest thou? I will not move my Prince, I will prefer his safety before my life: Hear me o king, 'tis Dorothea's death, Must do you good. What, murder of my Queen? Yet to enjoy my love, what is my Queen? Oh but my vow and promise to my Queen: I but my hope to gain a fairer Queen, With how contrarious thoughts am I with drawn? Why linger I twixt hope and doubtful fear: If Dorothy die, will Ida love? She will my Lord. Then let her die. devise, advise the means, All likes me well that lends me hope in love. What will your grace consent, then let me work: There's here in Court a Frenchman Iaques called, A fit performer of our enterprise, Whom I by gifts and promise will corrupt, To slay the Queen, so that your grace will seal A warrant for the man to save his life.
seed 43: T14 · seed 44: T9 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Thou god of heauē preuent my countries fall. These staies and lets to pleasure, plague my thoughts, Forcing my greeuous wounds a new to bleed: But care that hath transported me so farre, Faire Ida is disperst in thought of thee: Whose answere yeeldes me life, or breeds my death: Yond comes the messenger of weale or woe. Ateukin What newes? The adament o King will not be filde, But by it selfe, and beautie that exceeds, By some exeeding fauour must be wrought, Ida is coy as yet, and doth repine, Obiecting marriage, honour, feare, and death, Shee's holy, wise, and too precise for me. Are these thy fruites of wits, thy sight in Art? Thine eloquence? thy pollicie? thy drift? To mocke thy Prince, thē catiue packe thee hence, Art? And let me die deuoured in my loue. Good Lord how rage gainsayeth reasons power, My deare, my gracious, and beloued Prince, The essence of my sute, my God on earth, Sit downe and rest your selfe, appease your wrath, Least with a frowne yee wound me to the death: Oh that I were included in my graue, That eyther now to saue my Princes life, Must counsell crueltie, or loose my King. Why sirrha, is there meanes to mooue her minde? Oh should I not offend my royall liege. Tell all, spare nought, so I may gaine my loue. Alasse my soule why art thou torne in twaine, For feare thou talke a thing that should displease? Tur, speake what so thou wilt I pardon thee. How kinde a word, how courteous is his grace: Who would not die to succour such a king? My liege, this louely mayde of modest minde, Could well incline to loue, but that shee feares, Faire Dorotheas power, your grace doth know, Your wedlocke is a mightie let to loue: Were Ida sure to bee your wedded wife, That then the twig would bowe, you might command. Ladies loue, presents pompe and high estate. Ah Ateukin, how shuld we display this let? Tut mightie Prince, oh that I might bee whist Why dalliest thou? I will not mooue my Prince, I will preferre his safetie before my life: Heare mee ô king, tis Dorotheas death, Must do you good. What, murther of my Queene? Yet to enioy my loue, what is my Queene? Oh but my vowe and promise to my Queene: I but my hope to gaine a fairer Queene, With how contrarious thoughts am I with drawne? Why linger I twixt hope and doubtfull feare: If Dorothe die, will Ida loue? Shee will my Lord. Then let her die. Deuise, aduise the meanes, Al likes me wel that lends me hope in loue. What will your grace consent, then let mee worke: Theres heere in Court a Frenchman Iaques calde, A fit performer of our enterprise, Whom I by gifts and promise will corrupt, To slaye the Queene, so that your grace will seale A warrant for the man to saue his life.