Day, John · published 1633 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 517 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Nay and ye can do't well enough yourself, I care for neither of them both, but indeed I love to have a thing well done, for says my mother, a thing once well done, is twice done, and I am in her mind for that up and down. Whose with my Lord the Duke? it cannot be, Mine eye would not conceal such treachery. 'tis not the Duchess sure, no it is amorous Ioue, That seeing Zelmane passionate for love, Descends to comfort her; Ioue if there be A powerful Phoebus' God of poetry, In dear remembrance of fair Daphne's rape, To win my love, lend me some stranger shape, Such as yourselves have worn, that when your same Is sung by Poets, they may quote my name. Sure 'tis my daughter. Daughter? how her eye Cut out new forms, new shapes of jealousy? As sure as death 'tis she, for see they stand Like amorous twins, in twisted hand in hand, Breast against breast, and that no joy be missing, To hear discourse, their lips keep time with kissing, I'll not endure't, impatience grow strong, And though a Prince, tell him he doth thee wrong. Do, prithee do, this sweetens all the rest, But here would be the elixir of the jest, If whilst we keep each other at a bay, A third should come, and bear the hare away. Villainous poetry, unchristianlike poetry, I am cozened of my gold by poetry, robbed of my charge by poetry, made an apparent fool by poetry, villainous Oak, accursed Dorus, unfortunate Dametas: whose there my daughter and with Zelmane? a well-willer to Dorus, a favourite to poetry, and therefore enemy to Dametas, come hither Mopsa, a thy father's blessing come not near her: what Mopsa. Yes, whos's there? Dorus. Confusion a Dorus, I am thy miserable father, didst not see Hippolita? No by my troth not. Did ye not see Dorus? Pox of Dorus, I am undone Madam and thou telft me not of Hippolita. Pox a Hippolita, I am a dumb woman and you can tell me news of Dorus. I had rather see ten Dorusses hanged, then loose Hippolita. I had rather see ten fathers damned, then lose my sweet Dorus. I shall run mad and I find not Hippolita. I shall run frantic and I find not Dorus. What's here? I shall run mad for Hippolita. And I shall run frantic and I find not Doras', I hold my life we have some Comedy in hand, we shall have a full Scene, for here comes more Actors. As sure as I am a sinner to God Madam, that same's he. What with a brace of wenches, i'faith old brock, have I ●●ne you in the manner, is this the fruits of your lying alone, is this your Court custom with a wannion? lend me thy knife, though I had neither house nor land to give 'em, I'll bestow a whores mark betwixt you, and yet I will not scold neither. What a goodyer ail you mother, are you frampold, know you not your own daughter?
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)
Nay and yee can do't well enough your ſelfe, I care for neither of them both, but indeed I loue to haue a thing well done, for ſayes my mother, a thing once well done, is twice done, and I am in her mind for that up and downe. Whoſe with my Lord the Duke? it cannot be, Mine eye would not conceale ſuch treachery. Tis not the Dutcheſſe ſure, no it is amarous Ioue, That ſeeing Zelmane paſſionate for loue, Deſcends to comfort her; Ioue if there be A powerfull Phoebus God of poetry, In deare remembrance of faire Daphnes rape, To winne my loue, lend me ſome ſtranger ſhape, Such as your ſelues haue worne, that when your ſame Is ſung by Poets, they may quote my name. Sure tis my daughter. Daughter? how her eye Cut out new formes, new ſhapes of jealouſie? As ſure as death tis ſhe, for ſee they ſtand Like amarous twins, in twiſted hand in hand, Breaſt againſt breaſt, and that no joy be miſſing, To heare diſcourſe, their lips keepe time with kiſſing, Ile not endure't, impatience grow ſtrong, And though a Prince, tell him he doth thee wrong. Doe, prethee doe, this ſweetens all the reſt, But here would be the elixar of the jeſt, If whilſt we keepe each other at a bay, A third ſhould come, and beare the hare away. Villanous poetry, unchriſtian-like poetry, I am cozend of my gold by poetry, rob'd of my charge by poetry, made an apparant foole by poetry, villanous Oke, accurſt Dorus, unfortunate Dametas: whoſe there my daughter and with Zelmane? a wel-willer to Dorus, a favorite to poetry, and therefore enemy to Dametas, come hither Mopſa, a thy fathers bleſſing come not neare her: what Mopſa. Yes, whoſe there? Dorus. Confuſion a Dorus, I am thy miſerable father, didſt not ſee Hippolita? No by my troth not. Did yee not ſee Dorus? Poxe of Dorus, I am undone Madam and thou telft me not of Hippolita. Poxe a Hippolita, I am a dumbe woman and you can tell me newes of Dorus. I had rather ſee ten Doruſſes hanged, then looſe Hippolita. I had rather ſee ten fathers damn'd, then looſe my ſweet Dorus. I ſhall run mad and I find not Hippolita. I ſhall run franticke and I find not Dorus. Whats here? I ſhall run mad for Hippolita. And I ſhall run franticke and I find not Doras, I hold my life we haue ſome Comoedy in hand, wee ſhall haue a full Scene, for here comes more Actors. As ſure as I am a ſinner to God Madam, that ſames he. What with a brace of wenches, ifaith old brocke, have I ne you in the manner, is this the fruits of your lying alone, is this your Court cuſtome with a wannion? lend me thy knife, though I had neither houſe nor land to give em, Ile beſtow a whores marke betwixt you, and yet I will not ſcold neither. What a goodyer aile you mother, are you frampall, know you not your owne daughter?