Dekker, Thomas · published 1600 · first performed or written 1599 [Nov 9-30, payment] (Annals) romance · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 481 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
I'll gaze on heaven if Agrippine be there: If not: Fa, La, la, Sol, la, etc. O, call this madness in, see from the windows Of every eye Derision thrusts out cheeks, Wrinkled with Idiot laughter; every finger Is like a Dart shot from the hand of scorn, By which thy name is hurt, thine honour torn. Laugh they at me, sweet Galloway? even at thee. Ha, ha, I laugh at them, are not they mad, That let my true true sorrow make them glad? I dance and sing only to anger grief, That in that anger, he might smite life down With his Iron fist: good heart, it seemeth then, They laugh to see grief kill me: O, fond men, You laugh at others' tears, when others smile, You tear yourselves in pieces: vile, vile, vile, Ha, ha, when I behold a swarm of fools, Crowding together to be counted wise, I laugh because sweet Agripine's not there, But weep because she is not anywhere, And weep because whether she be or not, My love was ever and is still forgot: forgot, forgot, forgot. Draw back this stream, why should my Orleans mourn? Look yonder, Galloway, dost thou see that Sun? Nay good friend, stare upon it, mark it well, Ere he be two hours elder, all that glory Is banished heaven, and then (for grief) this sky, That's now so jocund, will mourn all in black, And shall not Orleans mourn? Alack, alack, O, what a Savage tyranny it were, T'enforce care, laugh and woe: not shed a tear? Dead is my love, I am buried in her scorn, That is my Sunset, and shall I not mourn? Yes by my troth I will. Dear friend forbear, Beauty (like sorrow) dwelleth everywhere. Race out this strong Idea of her face, As fair as hers shineth in any place. Thou art a Traitor to that white and red, Which sitting on hex cheeks (being Cupid's throne) Is my heart's sovereign: O when she is dead, This wonder (Beauty) shall be found in none. Now Agripyne's not mine, I vow to be In love with nothing but deformity. O fair Deformity, I muse all eyes Are not enamoured of thee: thou didst never Murder men's hearts, or let them pine like wax, Melting against the Sun of thy destiny, Thou art a faithful nurse to Chastity, Thy beauty is not like to Agrippina's, For cares, and age, and sickness hers deface, But thine's eternal: O Deformity, Thy fairness is not like to Agrippina's, For (dread) her beauty will no beauty have, But thy face looks most lovely in the grave. See where they come together hand in hand. O, watch sweet Galloway, when their hands do part, Between them, shalt thou find my murdered heart. By this then it seems a thing impossible, to know when an English Lady loves truly.
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)
Ile gaze on heauen if Agripyne be there: If not: Fa, La, la, Sol, la, &c. O, call this madnes in, see from the windowes Of euery eye Derision thrusts out cheekes, Wrinckled with Idiot laughter; euery finger Is like a Dart shot from the hand of scorne, By which thy name is hurt, thine honour torne. Laugh they at me, sweete Galloway? Euen at thee. Ha, ha, I laugh at them, are not they mad, That let my true true sorrow make them glad? I daunce and sing onely to anger griefe, That in that anger, he might smite life downe With his Iron fist: good heart, it seemeth then, They laugh to see griefe kill me: O, fond men, You laugh at others teares, when others smile, You teare your selues in pieces: vile, vile, vile, Ha, ha, when I behold a swarme of fooles, Crowding together to be counted wise, I laugh because sweete Agripine's not there, But weepe because shee is not any where, And weepe because whether shee be or not, My loue was euer and is still forgot: forgot, forgot, forgot. Draw backe this streame, why should my Orleans mourne? Looke yonder, Galloway, doest thou see that Sunne? Nay good friend, stare vpon it, marke it well, Ere he be two howres elder, all that glorie Is banisht heauen, and then (for griefe) this skie, That's now so iocund, will mourne all in blacke, And shall not Orleans mourne? Alacke, alacke, O, what a Sauage tyrannie it were, T'inforce care, laugh and woe: not shed a teare? Dead is my loue, I am buried in her scorne, That is my Sun-set, and shall I not mourne? Yes by my troth I will. Deere friend forbeare, Beautie (like sorrow) dwelleth euery where. Race out this strong Idea of her face, As faire as hers shineth in any place. Thou art a Traytor to that white and red, Which sitting on hex cheekes (being Cupids throne) Is my hearts soueraigne: O when she is dead, This wonder (Beautie) shall be found in none. Now Agripyne's not mine, I vow to be In loue with nothing but deformitie. O faire Deformitie, I muse all eyes Are not enamord of thee: thou didst neuer Murder mens hearts, or let them pine like wax, Melting against the Sunne of thy destinie, Thou art a faithfull nurse to Chastitie, Thy beautie is not like to Agripynes, For cares, and age, and sicknesse hers deface, But thine's eternall: O Deformitie, Thy fairenes is not like to Agripynes, For (dread) her beautie will no beautie haue, But thy face lookes most louely in the graue. See where they come together hand in hand. O, watch sweete Galloway, when their hands doe part, Betweene them, shalt thou find my murdred heart. By this then it seemes a thing impossible, to know when an English Lady loues truely.