Blurt, Master Constable, or The Spaniard's Night Walk · chunk 19 of 34
Anonymous · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 [1601-1602] (Annals) romance · Children of Paul's (second) T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.72 · 472 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
We have my Lord. Bestow them sweetly; think a lovers heart Dwells in each instrument and let it melt In weeping strains: yonder direct your faces, That the soft summons of a frightless parley, May creep into the Casement: So, begin; Music speak movingly, assume my part, For thou must now plead to a stony heart. Pity, pity, pity, Pity, pity, pity, That word begins that ends a true-Love Ditty, Your blessed eyes (like a pair of Suns,) Shine in the sphere of smiling, Your pretty lips (like a pair of Doves) Are kisses still compiling. Mercy hangs upon your brow, like a precious jewel, O let not then, (Most lovely maid, best to be loved of men:) Marble, lie upon your heart, that will make you cruel: Pity, pity, pity, Pity, pity, pity: That word begins that ends a true-Love ditty. Who owes this salutation? Thy Camillo. Is not your shadow there too, my sweet bother? Here sweet Sister. I dreamed so: o I am much bound to you, For you my Lord have used my love with honour. Ever with honour. Indeed, indeed you have. 'Slight, she means her French garsoon. The same, good night, trust me 'tis somewhat late, And this bleak wind nips dead all idle prate. I must to bed, good night. The God of rest, Play music to thine eyes, whilst on my breast The furies sit and beat, and keep care waking. You will not leave my friend in this poor taking: Yes by the velvet brow of darkness. You scurvy tit: 'sfoot, scurvy anything, Do you hear Susanna: you, punk, if I geld not your musk-cat; I'll do't by Iesu; let's go Camillo. Nay but pure swaggerer, ruffian; do you think To fright me with your bugbear threats? go by; Hark tosspot in your ear, the French-man's mine, And by these hands I'll have him. Rareroage! fine! He is my prisoner, (by a deed of gift) Therefore Camillo you have wronged me much, To wrong my prisoner: by my troth I love him, The rather for the baseness he endures, For my unworthy self: I'll tell you what; Release him, let him plead your love for you; I love a life to hear a man speak French, Of his complexion: I would undergo The instruction of that language rather far, Than be two weeks unmarried (by my life) Because I'll speak true French, I'll be his wife. O scorn to my chaste love, burst heart. 'swounds hold. Come (gentle friends) tie your most solemn tunes, By silver strings unto a leaden pace; False fair, enjoy thy base-beloved: adieu, he's far less noble, and shall prove less true. Lady Imperia (the courtesans zany) hath brought you this letter, from the poor Gentleman in the deep dungeon, but would not stay till he had an answer.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
We haue my Lord. Bestow them sweetlie; thinke a Louers heart Dwels in each instrument and let it melt In weeping straines: yonder direct your faces, That the soft summons of a frightles parley, May creepe into the Casement: So, begin; Musicke speake moouinglye, assume my part, For thou must now pleade to a stonie heart. Pittie, pitty, pitty, Pitty, pitty, pitty, That word begins that endes a true-loue Ditty, Your blessed eyes (like a paire of Sunnes,) Shine in the sphere of smiling, Your prettie lips (like a paire of Doues) Are kisses still com-piling. Mercy hangs vpon your brow, like a pretious Iewell, O let not then, (Most louely maide, best to be loued of men:) Marble, lye vpon your heart, that will make you cruell: Pitty, pitty, pitty, Pitty, pitty, pitty: That word begins that ends a true-loue ditty. Who owes this salutation? Thy Camillo. Is not your shaddow there too, my sweet bother? Heere sweet Sister. I dreamt so: ô I am much bound to you, For you my Lord haue vsd my loue with honour. Euer with honour. Indeede, indeede you haue. S'light, she meanes her French garsoon. The same, good night, trust me tis somewhat late, And this bleake winde nippes dead all idle prate. I must to bed, good night. The God of rest, Play musicke to thine eyes, whilst on my brest The furies sit and beate, and keepe care waking. You will not leaue my friend in this poore taking: Yes by the veluet brow of darknes. You scuruey Tyt: s'foote, scuruey anything, Doe you heare Susanna: you, puncke, if I geld not your Muske-Cat; Ile doo't by Iesu; lets goe Camillo. Nay but pure swaggerer, ruffiin; doe you thinke To fright me with your bug-beare threates? goe by; Harke tosse-pot in your eare, the French-man's mine, And by these hands Ile haue him. Rareroage! fine! He is my prisoner, (by a deede of gift) Therefore Camillo you haue wrong'd me much, To wrong my prisoner: by my troth I loue him, The rather for the basenes he endures, For my vnworthie selfe: Ile tell you what; Release him, let him pleade your loue for you; I loue a life to heare a man speake French, Of his complection: I would vnder-goe The instruction of that language rather far, Than be two weekes vnmaried (by my life) Because Ile speake true French, Ile be his wife. O scorne to my chaste loue, burst heart. Swounds holde. Come (gentle friends) tye your most solemne tunes, By siluer strings vnto a leaden pace; False faire, inioy thy base-belou'd: adew, Hee's farre lesse noble, and shall prooue lesse true. Lady Imperia (the Curtezans Zani) hath brought you this letter, from the poore Gentleman in the deep dungeon, but would not stay till he had an answere.