Marston, John · published 1602 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
What servant, near a word, and I here man? I would shoot some speech forth, to strike the time With pleasing touch of amorous complement. Say sweet, what keeps thy mind, what think'st thou Nothing. on? What's that nothing? A woman's constancy. Good, why, wouldst thou have us sluts, & never shift the vesture of our thoughts? Away for shame. O no, thart too constant to afflict my heart, Too too firm fixed in unmoved scorn. Pish, pish; I fixed in unmoved scorn? Why, I'll love thee tonight. But whom tomorrow? Faith, as the toy puts me in the head. And pleased the marble heavens, now would I might be the toy, to put you in the head, kindly to conceit my my my: pray you give in an Epithet for love. Roaring, roaring. O love thou hast murdered me, made me a shadow, and you hear not Balurdo, but Balurdo's ghost. Can a ghost speak? Scurvily, as I do. And walk? After their fashion. And eat apples? In a sort, in their garb. pray Flavia be my mistress. Your reason, good Feliche? Faith, I have nineteen mistresses already, and I not much disdain that thou shouldst make up the full score. Oh, I hear you make common places of your mistresses, to perform the office of memory by. Pray you, in ancient times were not those satin hose? In good faith, now they are new died, pinked & scoured, they show as well as if they were new. What, mute Balurdo? I in faith, & 'twere not for printing, and painting, my breech, and your face would be out of reparation. ay, an faith, and 'twere not for printing, & pointing, my breech, and your face would be out of reparation. Good again, Echo. Thou art, by nature, too foul to be affected. And thou, by Art, too fair to be beloved. By wit's life, most spark spirits, but hard chance. La ty dine. Gallants, the night grows old; & downy sleep Courts us, to entertain his company: Our tired limbs, bruised in the morning fight, Entreat soft rest, and gentle hushed repose. Fill out Greek wines; prepare fresh cresset-light: we'll have a banquet: Princes, then good night. What means these scattered looks? why tremble you? Why quake your thoughts, in your distracted eyes? Collect your spirits, Madam; what do you see? Dost not behold a ghost? Look, look where he stalks, wrapped up in clouds of grief, Darting his soul, upon thy wondering eyes. Look, he comes towards thee; see, he stretcheth out His wretched arms to girt thy loved waste, With a most wished embrace: seest him not yet? Nor yet? Ha, Mellida; thou well mayst err: For look; he walks not like Antonio: Like that Antonio, that this morning shone, In glistering habiliments of arms, To seize his love, spite of her father's spite: But like himself, wretched, and miserable, Banished, forlorn, despairing, struck quite through, With sinking grief, rolled up in sevenfold doubles Of plagues, vanquishable: hark, he speaks to thee.
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)
What seruant, nere a word, and I here man? I would shoot some speach forth, to strike the time With pleasing touch of amorous complement. Say sweete, what keepes thy minde, what think'st thou Nothing. on? Whats that nothing? A womans constancie. Good, why, would'st thou haue vs sluts, & neuer shift the vestur of our thoughts? Away for shame. O no, thart too constant to afflict my heart, Too too firme fixed in vnmooued scorne. Pish, pish; I fixed in vnmooued scorne? Why, Ile loue thee to night. But whome to morrow? Faith, as the toy puts me in the head. And pleased the marble heauens, now would I might be the toy, to put you in the head, kindly to conceipt my my my: pray you giue in an Epithite for loue. Roaring, roaring. O loue thou hast murdred me, made me a shadowe, and you heare not Balurdo, but Balurdos ghost. Can a ghost speake? Scuruily, as I doe. And walke? After their fashion. And eate apples? In a sort, in their garbe. Pree thee Flauia be my mistresse. Your reason, good Feliche? Faith, I haue nineteene mistresses alreadie, and I not much disdeigne that thou shold'st make vp the ful score. Oh, I heare you make common places of your mistresses, to performe the office of memory by. Pray you, in auncient times were not those satten hose? In good faith, now they are new dyed, pinkt & scoured, they showe as well as if they were new. What, mute Balurdo? I in faith, & twere not for printing, and painting, my breech, and your face would be out of reparation. I, an faith, and twere not for printing, & pointing, my breech, and your face would be out of reparation. Good againe, Echo. Thou art, by nature, too foule to be affected. And thou, by Art, too faire to be beloued. By wits life, most sparke spirits, but hard chance. La ty dine. Gallants, the night growes old; & downy sleep Courts vs, to entertaine his company: Our tyred lymbes, brus'd in the morning fight, Intreat soft rest, and gentle husht repose. Fill out Greeke wines; prepare fresh cressit-light: Weele haue a banquet: Princes, then good night. What meanes these scattred looks? why tremble you? Why quake your thoughts, in your distracted eyes? Collect your spirits, Madam; what doe you see? Dost not beholde a ghost? Look, look where he stalks, wrapt vp in clouds of grief, Darting his sowle, vpon thy wondring eyes. Looke, he comes towards thee; see, he stretcheth out His wretched armes to girt thy loued waste, With a most wisht embrace: see'st him not yet? Nor yet? Ha, Mellida; thou well maist erre: For looke; he walkes not like Antonio: Like that Antonio, that this morning shone, In glistering habilliments of armes, To seize his loue, spight of her fathers spite: But like himselfe, wretched, and miserable, Banisht, forlorne, despairing, strook quite through, With sinking griefe, rowld vp in seauen-fould doubles Of plagues, vanquishable: harke, he speakes to thee.