When You See Me You Know Me (Henry the Eighth) · chunk 8 of 48
Rowley, Samuel · published 1605 · first performed or written 1604 (Annals) history · Prince Henry's Men T38 Death, parting and grief at court typicality 0.83 · 491 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
joy be it good Lord Seymer noble father, Or joy, or grief, thou hast a part in it, Thou commit to greet us in a doubtful hour, Thy daughter and my Queen lies now in pain, And if I lose, Seymer thou canst not gain. Yet comfort, good my Liege, this woman's woe, Why? 'tis as certain to her as her death, Both given her in her first creation: It is a sour to sweet, given them at first, By their first mother, then put sorrow hence: Your grace, ere long shall see a gallant Prince, Be thou a Prophet Seymer in thy words, Thy love some comfort to our hopes affords, How now. My gracious Lord, here I present to you, A goodly son: see here your flesh, your bone, Look here royal Lord, I warrant 'tis your own. See here my Liege, by the rood a gallant Prince, Ha little cakebread, fore-god a chopping boy. even now I wept with sorrow, now with joy, Take that for thy good news, how fares my Queen. O my good Lord, the woeful. Tell no more of woe, speak, doth she live? What? weep ye all, nay, than my heart misgives, Resolve me sister, is the news worth hearing. Nor worth the telling, royal Sovereign. Now, by my crown, thou dim'st my royalty, And with thy cloudy looks eclipsed my joys, Thy silent eye bewrays a ruthful sound, Stopped in the organs of thy troubled spirit: Say, is she dead. Without offence she is. Without offence, sayst thou, heaven take my soul, What can be more offensive to my life: Then sad remembrance of my fair queen's death, Thou woeful man, that camest to comfort me: How shall I ease thy heart's calamity? That cannot help thyself, how one sad minute Hath raised a fount of sorrows in his eyes, And bleared his aged cheeks, yet Seymer see, She hath left part of herself, a son to me: To thee a grandchild, unto the land a Prince, The perfect substance of his royal mother, In whom her memory shall ever live: Phoenix Iana obit vato Phaenice, Dolendum secula phaenices nulla tulisse dvas. One Phoenix dying, gives another life, Thus must we flatter our extremest grief. What day is this. Saint Edward's even my Lord. Prepare for christening, Edward shall be his name, My Lords of France you have had small cheer with us, But you must pardon us, the times are sad, And focits not now for mirth and banqueting: Therefore I pray make your swift return, Commend me to your king, and kindly tell him, The English Cardinal will remain his friend, The Lady Mary shall be forthwith sent, And overtake ye ere you reach to Dover: And for the business that concerns the league, Urge it no more, but leave it to my care, We thank your grace, my good Lord Cardinal, And so with thankfulness we take our leaves.
seed 43: T44 · seed 44: T6 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Ioy be it good Lord Seymer noble father, Or ioy, or griefe, thou hast a part in it, Thou comit to greete vs in a doubtfull houre, Thy daughter and my Queene lies now in paine, And if I loose, Seymer thou canst not gaine. Yet comfort, good my Liege, this womans woe, Why? tis as certaine to her as her death, Both giuen her in her first creation: It is a sower to sweete, giuen them at first, By their first mother, then put sorrow hence: Your grace, erc long shall see a gallant Prince, Be thou a Prophet Seymer in thy words, Thy loue some comfort to our hopes affoords, How now. My gratious Lord, here I present to you, A goodly sonne: see here your flesh, your bone, Looke here royall Lord, I warrant tis your owne. See here my Liege, by the rood a gallant Prince, Ha little cakebread, foregod a chopping boy. Euen now I wept with sorow, now with ioy, Take that for thy good newes, how fares my Queene. O my good Lord, the wofull. Tell no more of woe, speake, doth she liue? What? weepe ye all, nay, then my heart misgiues, Resolue me sister, is the newes worth hearing. Nor worth the telling, royall Soueraigne. Now, by my crowne, thou dimst my royaltie, And with thy cloudie lookes eclipst my ioyes, Thy silent eye bewrayes a ruthfull sound, Stopt in the organs of thy troubled spirit: Say, is she dead. Without offence she is. Without offence, saist thou, heauen take my soule, What can be more offensiue to my life: Then sad remembrance of my faire Queenes death, Thou wofull man, that camst to comfort me: How shall I ease thy hearts calamitie? That cannot helpe thy selfe, how one sad minute Hath raisd a fount of sorrowes in his eyes, And bleard his aged cheekes, yet Seymer see, She hath left part of her selfe, a sonne to me: To thee a graund-child, vnto the land a Prince, The perfect substance of his royall mother, In whom her memory shall euer liue: Phoenix Iana obit nato Phoenice, Dolendum secula phoenices nulla tulisse duas. One Phenix dying, giues another life, Thus must we flatter our extreamest griefe. What day is this. Saint Edwards euen my Lord. Prepare for christning, Edward shall be his name, My Lords of Fraunce you haue had small cheere with vs, But you must pardon vs, the times are sad, And focits not now for mirth and banqueting: Therefore I pray make your swift returne, Commend me to your king, and kindly tell him, The English Cardinall will remaine his friend, The Lady Mary shall be forthwith sent, And ouertake ye ere you reach to Douer: And for the businesse that concearnes the league, Vrge it no more, but leaue it to my care, We thanke your grace, my good Lord Cardinal, And so with thankfulnesse we take our leaues.