Dekker, Thomas / Chettle, Henry / Haughton, William · published 1603 · first performed or written 1600 [Oct 16-Dec 29, payment] (Annals) comedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.76 · 478 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
I will. It is enough, those words I will, Yields sweeter music than the gilded sounds, Which chatting parrots long tongued sycophants, Send from the organs of their siren voice, Grissel my wife thou seest bear in her womb, The joy of marriage: Furio I protest, My love to her is as the heat to fire, Her love to me as beauty to the Sun, (Inseparable adjuncts) in one word, So dearly love I Grissel, that my life Shall end, when she doth end to be my wife. 'tis well done. Yet is my bosom burnt up with desires, To try my Grissel's patience, I'll put on A wrinkled forehead, and turn both mine eyes, Into two balls of fire, and clasp my hand Like to a mace of Iron, to threaten death. But Furio when that hand lifts up to strike, It shall fly open to embrace my love, Yet Grissel must not know this: all my words, Shall smack of wormwood, all my deeds of gall, My tongue shall jar, my heart be musical, Yet Grissel must not know this? Not for me, Furio My trial is thy secrecy, Yonder she comes: on goes this mask of frowns, Tell her I am angry: men men try your wives, Love that abides sharp tempests, sweetly thrives. My Lord is angry. Angry? the heavens forfend: with whom? for what? Is it with me? Not me. May I presume, To touch the vain of that sad discontent, Which swells upon my dear Lords angry brow? Away away, Oh chide me not away, Your handmaid Grissel with unvexed thoughts, And with an unrepining soul, will bear The burden of all sorrows, of all woe, Before the smallest grief should wound you so. I am not beholding to your love for this, Woman I love thee not, thine eyes to mine Are eyes of Basilisks, they murder me. Suffer me to part hence, I'll tear them out, Because they work such treason to my love. Talk not of love I hate thee more than poison That sticks upon the airs infected wings, Exhaled up by the hot breath of the Sun, 'tis for thy sake that speckled infamy, Sits like a screech-owl on my honoured breast, To make my subjects stare and mock at me, They swear they'll never bend their awful knees, To the base issue of the beggar womb, 'tis for thy sake they curse me, rail at me, Thinkst thou then I can love thee (oh my soul) Why didst thou build this mountain of my shame, Why lie my joys buried in Grissel's name? My gracious Lord. Call not me gracious Lord, See woman here hangs up thine ancestry, The monuments of thy nobility, This is thy russet gentry, coat, and crest Thy earthen honours I will never hide, Because this bridle shall pull in thy pride.
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)
I will. It is enough, those words I will, Yeelds sweeter musicke then the gilded sounds, Which chatting parrats long toung'd sicophants, Send from the organs of their siren voice, Grissill my wife thou seest beare in her wombe, The ioy of marriage: Furio I protest, My loue to her is as the heate to fire, Her loue to mée as beautie to the Sunne, (Inseperable adiuncts) in one word, So dearely loue I Grissill, that my life Shall end, when she doth ende to be my wife. Tis well done. Yet is my bosome burnt vp with desires, To trie my Grissils patience, Ile put on A wrinckled forehead, and turne both mine eyes, Into two balles of fire, and claspe my hand Like to a mace of Iron, to threaten death. But Furio when that hand lifts up to strike, It shall flie open to embrace my loue, Yet Grissill must not knowe this: all my words, Shall smack of wormewood, all my deeds of gall, My tongue shall iarre, my hart be musicall, Yet Grissill must not knowe this? Not for me, Furio My triall is thy secrecie, Yonder she comes: on goes this maske of frownes, Tell her I am angrie: men men trie your wiues, Loue that abides sharpe tempests, sweetely thriues. My Lorde is angry. Angry? the heauēs foresēd: with whō? for what? Is it with mee? Not me. May I presume, To touch the vaine of that sad discontent, Which swels vpon my deare Lords angrie browe? Away away, Oh chide me not away, Your handmaid Grissill with vnuexed thoughts, And with an vnrepining soule, will beare The burden of all sorrowes, of all woe, Before the smallest griefe should wound you so. I am not beholding to your loue for this, Woman I loue thee not, thine eyes to mine Are eyes of Basiliskes, they murder me. Suffer me to part hence, Ile teare them out, Because they worke such treason to my loue. Talke not of loue I hate thee more thē poyson That stickes vpon the aires infected winges, Exhald vp by the hot breath of the Sunne, Tis for thy sake that speckled infamie, Sits like a screech-owle on my honoured brest, To make my subiects stare and mocke at mee, They sweare theyle neuer bend their awfull knees, To the base issue of the begger wombe, Tis for thy sake they curse me, raile at me, Thinkst thou then I can loue thee (oh my soule) Why didst thou builde this mountaine of my shame, Why lye my ioyes buried in Grissills name? My gracious Lorde. Call not me gracious Lorde, See woman heere hangs vp thine auncestrie, The monuments of thy nobillitie, This is thy russet gentrie, coate, and crest Thy earthen honors I will neuer hide, Because this bridle shall pull in thy pride.