The Shoemaker's Holiday, or The Gentle Craft · chunk 22 of 38
Dekker, Thomas · published 1600 · first performed or written 1599 [Jul 15, payment] (Annals) comedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 492 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
All this I hope is but a woman's fray, That means, come to me, when she cries, away: In earnest mistress I do not jest, A true chaste love hath entered in my breast, In love you dearly as I love my life, I love you as a husband loves a wife. That, and no other love my love requires, Thy wealth I know is little, my desires Thirst not for gold, sweet beauteous Iane what's mine, Shall (if thou make myself thine) all be thine, Say, judge, what is thy sentence, life or death? Mercy or cruelty lies in thy breath. Good sir, I do believe you love me well: For 'tis a seely conquest, seely pride, For one like you (I mean a gentleman) To boast, that by his love tricks he hath brought, Such and such women to his amorous lure: I think you do not so, yet many do, And make it even a very trade to woo, I could be coy, as many women be, Feed you with sunshine smiles, and wanton looks, But I detest witchcraft, say that I Do constantly believe you, constant have. Why dost thou not believe me? I believe you, But yet good sir, because I will not grieve you, With hopes to taste fruit, which will never fall, In simple truth this is the sum of all My husband lives, at least I hope he lives, priest was he to these bitter wars in France, Bitter they are to me by wanting him, I have but one heart, and that hearts his due, How can I then bestow the same on you? Whilst he lives, his I live, be it near so poor, And rather be his wife, than a king's whore. Chaste and dear woman, I will not abuse thee, Although it cost my life, if thou refuse me, Thy husband priest for France, what was his name? Rafe Damport. Damport, here's a letter sent From France to me, from a dear friend of mine, A gentleman of place, here he doth write, Their names that have been slain in every fight. I hope death's scroll contains not my loves name Cannot you read? I can. Beruse the same, To my remembrance such a name I read Amongst the rest: see here. ay me, he's dead: he's dead, if this be true my dear hearts slain. Have patience, dear love. Hence, hence. Nay sweet Iane, Make not poor sorrow proud with these rich tears, I mourn thy husband's death because thou mournest. That bill is forged; 'tis signed by forgery. I'll bring thee letters sent beside to many Carrying the like report: Iane 'tis too true, Come, weep not: mourning though it rise from love Helps not the mourned, yet hurts them that mourn. For God's sake leave me. Whither dost thou turn? Forget the deed, love them that are alive, His love is faded, try how mine will thrive.
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)
All this I hope is but a womans fray, That means, come to me, when she cries, away: In earnest mistris I do not iest, A true chaste loue hath entred in my brest, In loue you dearely as I loue my life, I loue you as a husband loues a wife. That, and no other loue my loue requires, Thy wealth I know is little, my desires Thirst not for gold, swéete beauteous Iane whats mine, Shall (if thou make my selfe thine) all be thine, Say, iudge, what is thy sentence, life or death? Mercie or crueltie lies in thy breath. Good sir, I do beleeue you loue me well: For tis a séely conquest, séely pride, For one like you (I meane a gentleman) To boast, that by his loue tricks he hath brought, Such and such women to his amorous lure: I thinke you do not so, yet many doe, And make it euen a very trade to wooe, I could be coy, as many women be, Féede you with sunne-shine smiles, and wanton lookes, But I detest witchcraft, say that I Doe coustantly beleeue you, constant haue. Why dost thou not beléeue me? I beleeue you, But yet good sir, because I will not gréeue you, With hopes to taste fruite, which will neuer fall, In simple truth this is the summe of all My husband liues, at least I hope he liues, Prest was he to these bitter warres in France, Bitter they are to me by wanting him, I haue but one heart, and that hearts his due, How can I then bestow the same on you? Whilst he liues, his I liue, be it nere so poore, And rather be his wife, then a kings whore. Chaste and deare woman, I will not abuse thée, Although it cost my life, if thou refuse me, Thy husband prest for France, what was his name? Rafe Damport. Damport, heres a letter sent From France to me, from a deare friend of mine, A gentleman of place, here he doth write, Their names that haue bin slaine in euery fight. I hope deaths scroll containes not my loues name Cannot you reade? I can. Beruse the same, To my remembrance such a name I read Amongst the rest: sée here. Aye me, hées dead: Hées dead, if this be true my deare hearts slaine. Haue patience, deare loue. Hence, hence. Nay swéete Iane, Make not poore sorrow prowd with these rich teares, I mourne thy husbands death because thou mournst. That bil is forgde; tis signde by forgerie. Ile bring thée letters sent besides to many Carrying the like report: Iane tis too true, Come, wéepe not: mourning though it rise from loue Helpes not the mourned, yet hurtes them that mourne. For Gods sake leaue me. Whither dost thou turne? Forget the déede, loue them that are aliue, His loue is faded, trie how mine will thriue.