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 T1 Death, grief and revenge · 502 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O, how I grieve, to see him thus transformed? Yet from the circles of my jealous eyes, He shall not start, till he have repossessed Those virtuous jewels, which found once again, More cause they ne'er shall give me to complain. Their worth shall be consumed in murdering flames, And end my grief, his riot, and our shames. In spite of sorcery try once again, Try once more in contempt of all damned spells. Your majesty fights with no mortal power. Shame and not conquest, hangs upon his strife. O, touch me not, you add but pain to pain, The more you cut, the more they grow again. Is there no art to conjure down this scorn? ay, ne'er knew Physic yet against the horn. See, prince of Cyprus, thy fair Agrippine Hath turn her beauty to deformity. Then I defy thee, Love, vain hopes, adieu, You have mocked me long; in scorn i'll now mock you. I came to see how the Lord Longavile Was turned into a monster, and I find And object, which both strikes me dumb and blind. Tomorrow should have been our marriage morn, But now my bride is shame, thy bridegroom scorn. O tell me yet, is there no Art, no charms, No desperate Physic for this desperate wound? All means are tried, but no means can be found. Then England, farewell: hapless maid, thy stars, Through spiteful influence set our hearts at wars. I am enforced to leave thee, and resign My love to grief. All grief to Agrippine. Adieu I would say more, had I a tongue Able to help his master: mighty king, I humbly take my leave, to Cyprus I, My father's Son, must all such shame defy. So doth not Orleans, I defy all those, That love not Agrippine, and him defy, That dares but love her half so well as I. O pardon me, I have in sorrows jail, Been long tormented, long this mangled bosom Hath bled, and never durst expose her wounds, Till now, till now, when at thy beauteous feet, I offer love and life, O cast an eye Of mercy on me, this deformed face Cannot affright my soul from loving thee. Talk not of love, good Orleans, but of hate. What sentence will my love pronounce on me? Will Orleans then be mad? O gentle friend. O gentle, gentle friend I am not mad: he's mad, whose eyes on painted cheeks do dote, O Galloway; such read beauty's book by rote. he's mad, that pines for want of a gay flower, Which saves when grief doth blast, or sickness lower, Which heat doth wither, and white ages frost Nips dead: such fairness, when 'tis found, 'tis lost, I am not mad, for loving Agrippine, My love looks on her eyes, with eyes divine, I dote on the rich brightness of her mind, That sacred beauty strikes all other blind, O make me happy then, since my desires Are set a burning by loves purest fires.
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)
O, how I grieue, to sée him thus transformd? Yet from the circles of my iealous eyes, He shall not start, till he haue re-possest Those vertuous Iewels, which found once againe, More cause they ne're shall giue me to complaine. Their worth shall be consum'd in murdring flames, And end my griefe, his ryot, and our shames. In spite of sorcerie trie once againe, Trie once more in contempt of all dam'd spels. Your maiestie fights with no mortall power. Shame and not conquest, hangs vpon his strife. O, touch me not, you adde but paine to paine, The more you cut, the more they grow againe. Is there no art to coniure downe this scorne? I, ne're knew Phisicke yet against the horne. Sée, prince of Cyprus, thy faire Agripyne Hath turne her beautie to deformitie. Then I defie thee, Loue, vaine hopes, adew, You haue mockt me long; in scorne ile now mocke you. I came to sée how the Lord Longauyle Was turnd into a monster, and I find And obiect, which both strikes me dumbe and blind. To morrow should haue béene our marriage morne, But now my bride is shame, thy bridegrome scorne. O tell mee yet, is there no Art, no charmes, No desperate Physicke for this desperate wound? Al meanes are tride, but no meanes can be found. Then England, farwell: haplesse maide, thy stars, Through spitefull influence set our hearts at warres. I am infor'st to leaue thee, and resigne My loue to griefe. All griefe to Agripyne. Adew I would say more, had I a tongue Able to helpe his master: mightie king, I humbly take my leaue, to Cyprus I, My fathers Sonne, must all such shame defie. So doth not Orleans, I defie all those, That loue not Agripyne, and him defie, That dares but her halfe so well as I. O pardon me, I haue in sorrowes Iayle, Béene long tormented, long this mangled bosome Hath bled, and neuer durst expose her wounds, Till now, till now, when at thy beautious feete, I offer loue and life, O cast an eye Of mercy on me, this deformed face Cannot affright my soule from louing thée. Talk not of loue, good Orleans, but of hate. What sentence will my loue pronounce on me? Will Orleans then be mad▪ O gentle friend. O gentle, gentle friend I am not mad: Hées mad, whose eyes on painted cheekes doe doate, O Galloway; such read beauties booke by roate. Hees mad, that pines for want of a gay flowre, Which saves when grief doth blast, or sicknes lowre, Which heate doth wither, and white ages frost Nips dead: such fairenes, when tis found, tis lost, I am not mad, for louing Agripyne, My loue lookes on her eyes, with eyes diuine, I doate on the rich brightnes of her mind, That sacred beautie strikes all other blind, O make me happie then, since my desires Are set a burning by loues purest fires.