The Dutch Courtesan (Cockle de Moye) · chunk 31 of 35
Marston, John · published 1605 · first performed or written 1605 [1603-1605] (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T11 Siblings, kin and confidants · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
Vat. Vil you make a her mad? seet by min trat, Be pretta seruan, Bush, Ick sall go to bet now. Mischief whether wilt thou? O thou tearless woman? How monstrous is thy Devil, The end of Hell as thee. How miserable were it to be virtuous, if thou couldst prosper? I'll to my Love, the faithful Beatrice, She has wept enough, and faith dear soul too much. But yet how sweet it is to think How dear ones life was to his Love: how mourned his death. 'tis joy not to be expressed with breath: But O let him that would such passion drink, Be quiet of his speech, and only think. Sister, cannot a woman kill herself? Is it not lawful to die when we should not live? O sister 'tis a question not for us, we must do what God will. What God will? Alas, can torment be his glory, or our grief his pleasure? Does not the nurses nipple juiced over with Wormwood, bid the child it should not suck? And does not Heaven when it hath made our breath bitter unto us, say we should not live? O my best sister: to suffer wounds when one may scape this rod, is against nature, that is against God. Good sister do not make me weep: sure Frevile was not false: I'll gauge my life that strumpet out of craft And some close second end hath maliced him. O sister if he were not false, whom have I lost? If he were: what grief to such unkindness, From head to foot I am all misery: Only in this, some justice I have found My grief is like my love, beyond all bound. My servant, master Cacature desires to visit you, For griefs sake keep him out, his discourse is like the long word, Honorificabilitudinitatibus: a great deal Of sound and no sense: his company is like a parenthesis. To a discourse you may admit it, or leave it out, it makes no matter. By your leave sweet creatures. Sir, all I can yet say of you, is, you are uncivil. You must deny it: By your sorrows leave, I bring some music, to make sweet your grief, whate'er you please: O break my heart Canst thou yet pant? O dost thou yet survive, Thou didst not love him, if thou now canst live: O Love, how strangely sweet are thy weak Passions, That love and joy shall meet in self same fashions. O who can tell the cause why this should move? But only this, no reason, aske of Le. Hold, peace, the gentlest soul is swooned, O my best sister. Ha, get you gone, close the doors: My Beatrice, Cursed be my indiscreet trials: O my immeasurably loving. She stirs, give air, she breathes. Where am I, ha? how have I slipped off life? Am I in heaven? O my Lord, though not loving By our eternal being, yet give me leave To rest by thy dear side: am I not in heaven? O eternally much laved, recollect your spirits.
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)
Vat. Vil you mak a her mad? ſeet by min trat, Be pretta ſeruan, Buſh, Ick ſall go to bet now. Miſchiefe whether wilt thou? O thou tear-leſſe woman? How monſtrous is thy Deuill, The end of Hell as thee. How miſerable were it to be vertuous, if thou couldſt proſper? Ile to my Loue, the faithfull Beatrice, She has wept enough, and faith deere ſoule too much. But yet how ſweet it is to thinke How deere ones life was to his Loue: how moornd his death. Tis Ioy not to be expreſt with breath: But O let him that would ſuch paſsion drinke, Be quiet of his ſpeech, and onlie thinke. Siſter, cannot a woman kill her ſelfe? Is it not lawfull to die when we ſhould not liue? O ſiſter tis a queſtion not for vs, we muſt do what God will. What God will? Alaſſe, can torment be his glorie, or our greefe his pleaſure? Does not the Nurces nipple iuic'd ouer with Wormwood, bid the childe it ſhoulde not ſucke? And does not Heauen when it hath made our breath bitter vnto vs, ſay we ſhud not liue? O my beſt ſiſter: to ſuffer wounds when one may ſcape this rod, is againſt nature, that is againſt God. Good ſiſter do not make me weep: ſure Frevile was not falſe: Ile gage my life that ſtrumpet out of craft And ſome cloſe ſecond end hath maliſt him. O ſiſter if he were not falſe, whom haue I loſt? If he were: what griefe to ſuch vnkindneſſe, From head to foote I am all myſerie: Onely in this, ſome iuſtice I haue found My griefe is like my loue, beyond all bound. My ſeruant, maiſter Cacature deſires to viſite you, For griefes ſake keepe him out, his diſcourſe is like the long word, Honorificabilitudinitatibus: a great deale Of ſound and no ſence: his companie is like a parentheſis. To a diſcourſe you may admit it, or leau it out, it makes no matter. By your leau ſweet creatures. Sir, all I can yet ſay of you, is, you are vnciuill. You muſt denie it: By your ſorrowes leaue, I bring ſome muſſicke, to make ſweet your griefe, What ere you pleaſe: O breake my hart Canſt thou yet pant? O doſt thou yet ſeruiue, Thou didſt not loue him, if thou now canſt liue▪ O Loue, how ſtrangely ſweet are thy weake Paſſions, That loue and ioy in ſelfe ſame faſhions. O who can tell the cauſe why this ſhould moue▪ But onely this, no reaſon, aſke of Le. Hold, peace, the ge O my beſt ſiſter. Ha, get you gone, cloſe the dores: My Beatrice, Curſt be my indiſcreet trials: O my immeaſureablie louing. She ſtirs, giue aire, ſhe breathes. Where am I, ha? how haue I ſlipt off life? Am I in heauen? O my Lord, though not louing By our eternall being, yet giue me leaue To reſt by thie dear ſide: am I not in heauen? O eternallie much laued, recollect your ſpirits.