Marston, John · published 1602 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T48 Addressing a lady: love, desire and inti · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T48: lady, love, heart, fair, eyes, la, lord, tears, fie, face.
The triumph's ended, but look Rossaline, What gloomy soul in strange accoutrements Walks on the pavement. Good sweet let's to her, pree Mellida. How covetous thou art of novelties! Pish, 'tis our nature to desire things That are thought strangers to the common cut. I am exceeding willing, but— But what? pree go down, let's see her face: God send that neither wit nor beauty wants Those tempting sweets, affections Adamants. Come down, she comes like: O, no Simile Is precious, choice, or elegant enough To illustrate her descent: leap heart, she comes, She comes: smile heaven, and softest Southern wind Kiss her cheek gently with perfumed breath. She comes: creation's purity, admired. Adored, amazing rarity, she comes. O now Antonio press thy spirit forth In following passion, knit thy senses close, Heap up thy powers, double all thy man: She comes. O how her eyes dart wonder on my heart! Mount blood, soul to my lips, taste Hebe's cup: Stand firm on deck, when beauties close fight's up. Lady, your strange habit doth beget Our pregnant thoughts, even great of much desire, To be acquaint with your condition. Good sweet Lady, without more ceremonies, What country claims your birth, & sweet your name? In hope your bounty will extend itself, In self same nature of fair courtesy, I'll shun all niceness; my name's Florizell, My country Scythia, I am Amazon, Cast on this shore by fury of the sea. Nay faith, sweet creature, we'll not vail our names. It pleased the Font to dip me Rossaline. That Lady bears the name of Mellida, The duke of Venice daughter. Madam, I am obliged to kiss your hand, By imposition of a now dead man. Now by my troth, I long beyond all thought, To know the man; sweet beauty deign his name. Lady, the circumstance is tedious. Troth not a whit; good fair, let's have it all: I love not, ay, to have a jot left out, If the tale come from a loved Orator. Vouchsafe me then your hushed observances. Vehement in pursuit of strange novelties, After long travail through the Asian main, I shipped my hopeful thoughts for Britany; Longing to view great nature's miracle, The glory of our sex, whose fame doth strike Remotest ears with adoration. Sailing some two months with inconstant winds, We viewed the glistering Venetian forts; To which we made: when lo, some three leagues off, We might descry a horrid spectacle: The issue of black fury strowed the sea, With tattered carcases of splitted ships, Half sinking, burning, floating, topsy-turvy. Not far from these sad ruins of fell rage, We might behold a creature press the waves; Senseless he sprawled, all notched with gaping wounds: To him we made, and (short) we took him up: The first word that he spoke was, Mellida; And than he swooned. ay me! Why sigh you, fair? Nothing but little humours: good sweet, on.
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)
The tryumph's ended, but looke Rossaline, What gloomy soule in strange accustrements Walkes on the pauement. Good sweete lets to her, pree the Mellida. How couetous thou art of nouelties! Pish, tis our nature to desire things That are thought strangers to the common cut. I am exceeding willing, but— But what? pree the goe downe, lets see her face: God send that neither wit nor beauty wants Those tempting sweets, affections Adamants. Come downe, she comes like: O, no Simile Is pretious, choyce, or elegant enough To illustrate her descent: leape heart, she comes, She comes: smile heauen, and softest Southern winde Kisse her cheeke gently with perfumed breath. She comes: Creations puritie, admir'd. Ador'd, amazing raritie, she comes. O now Antonio presse thy spirit forth In following passion, knit thy senses close, Heape vp thy powers, double all thy man: She comes. O how her eyes dart wonder on my heart! Mount bloode, soule to my lips, tast Hebes cup: Stand firme on decke, when beauties close fight's vp. Ladie, your strange habit doth beget Our pregnant thoughts, euen great of much desire, To be acquaint with your condition. Good sweete Lady, without more ceremonies, What country claims your birth, & sweet your name? In hope your bountie will extend it selfe, In selfe same nature of faire curtesie, Ile shunne all nicenesse; my nam's Florizell, My country Scythia, I am Amazon, Cast on this shore by furie of the sea. Nay faith, sweete creature, weele not vaile our names. It pleas'd the Font to dip me Rossaline. That Ladie beares the name of Mellida, The duke of Venice daughter. Madam, I am oblig'd to kisse your hand, By imposition of a now dead man. Now by my troth, I long beyond all thought, To know the man; sweet beauty deigne his name. Ladie, the circumstance is tedious. Troth not a whit; good faire, lets haue it all: I loue not, I, to haue a iot left out, If the tale come from a lou'd Orator. Vouchsafe me then your hush't obseruances. Vehement in pursuite of strange nouelties, After long trauaile through the Asian maine, I shipt my hopefull thoughts for Britany; Longing to viewe great natures miracle, The glorie of our sex, whose fame doth strike Remotest eares with adoration. Sayling some two monthes with inconstant winds, We view'd the glistering Venetian forts; To which we made: when loe, some three leagues off, We might descry a horred spectacle: The issue of black fury strow'd the sea, With tattered carcasses of splitted ships, Halfe sinking, burning, floating, topsie turuie. Not farre from these sad ruines of fell rage, We might behold a creature presse the waues; Senselesse he sprauld, all notcht with gaping wounds: To him we made, and (short) we tooke him vp: The first word that he spake was, Mellida; And then he swouned. Aye me! Why sigh you, faire? Nothing but little humours: good sweet, on.