Chapman, George · published 1607 · first performed or written 1607 (Annals) tragedy · Children of Paul's (second) · Paul's unassigned nearest T23 Husbands, wives and jealousy · 484 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T23: wife, husband, cuckold, jealousy, woman, jealous, mistress, love, house, honest.
May we not hear them? No, be still and see. I will go fetch the paper. Do not stir: there's too much distance and too many locks Twixt you & them: (how near so ere they seem) For any man to interrupt their secrets. O honoured spirit: fly into the fancy Of my offended Lord: and do not let him Believe what there the wicked man hath written. Persuasion hath already entered him Beyond reflection; peace till their departure. There is a glass of ink wherein you see How to make ready black faced Tragedy: You now discern, I hope through all her paintings Her gasping wrinkles, and fames sepulchres. Think you he feigns my Lord? what hold you now? Do we malign your wife: or honour you? What stricken dumb? nay fie, Lord be not daunted: Your case is common: were it ne'er so rare Bear it as rarely: now to laugh were manly: A worthy man should imitate the weather That sings in tempests: and being clear is silent. Go home my Lord, and force your wife to write Such loving stuff to D'Ambois as she used When she desired his presence. Do my Lord, And make her name her concealed messenger: That close and most inennerable Pander That passeth all our studies to exquire: By whom convey the letter to her love: And so you shall be sure to have him come Within the thirsty reach of your revenge; Before which, lodge an ambush in her chamber Behind the arras of your stoutest men All close and soundly armed: and let them share A spirit amongst them, that would serve a thousand. Yet stay a little: see she sends for you. Poor, loving lady, she'll make all good yet, Think you not so my Lord? alas poor soul. This was ill done i'faith. 'twas nobly done. And I forgive his Lordship from my soul. Then much good do't thee Pero: hast a letter? I hope it be, at least, if not a volume Of worthy curses for your perjury. Now out upon her. Let me see my Lord. You shall presently: how fares my Pero? whose's there? take in this maid sh'as caught a clap: And fetch my surgeon to her; come my Lord, We'll now peruse our letter. Furies rise Out of the black lines, and torment his soul. Hath my Lord slain my woman? No, she lives. What shall become of us? All I can say Being called thus late, is brief, and darkly this: If D'Ambois mistress, stay not her white hand With his forced blood he shall remain untouched: So father, shall yourself, but by yourself: To make this Augury plainer: when the voice Of D'Ambois shall invoke me I will rise, Shining in greater light: and show him all That will betide ye all; mean time be wise, And let him curb his rage, with policy.
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)
May we not heare them? No, be still and see. I will go fetch the paper. Do not stir: Ther's too much distance and too many lockes Twixt you & them: (how neere so e're they seeme) For any man to interrupt their secrets. O honord spirit: flie into the fancie Of my offended Lord: and do not let him Beleeue what there the wicked man hath written. Perswasion hath already enterd him Beyond reflection; peace till their departure. There is a glasse of inke wherein you see How to make ready black fac't Tragedy: You now discerne, I hope through all her paintings Her gasping wrinkles, and fames sepulchres. Thinke you he faines my Lord? what hold you now? Doe we maligne your wife: or honour you? What stricken dumbe? nay fie, Lord be not danted: Your case is common: were it ne're so rare Beare it as rarely: now to laugh were manly: A woorthy man should imitate the weather That sings in tempests: and being cleere is silent. Goe home my Lord, and force your wife to write Such louing stuffe to D'Ambois as she vsde When she desir'd his presence. Doe my Lord, And make her name her conceald messenger: That close and most inennerable Pander That passeth all our studies to exquire: By whom conuay the letter to her loue: And so you shall be sure to haue him come Within the thirsty reach of your reuenge; Before which, lodge an ambush in her chamber Behind the arras of your stoutest men All close and soundly armd: and let them share A spirit amongst them, that would serue a thousand. Yet stay a little: see she sends for you. Poore, louing lady, she'le make all good yet, Thinke you not so my Lord? Ahlas poore soule. This was ill done y'faith. T'was nobly done. And I forgiue his Lordship from my soule. Then much good doo't thee Pero: hast a letter? I hope it be, at least, if not a volume Of worthy curses for your periury. Now out vpon her. Let me see my Lord. You shall presently: how fares my Pero? Whose there? take in this maid sh'as caught a clap: And fetch my surgeon to her; come my Lord, We'l now peruse our letter. Furies rise Out of the blacke lines, and torment his soule. Hath my Lord slaine my woman? No, she liues. What shall become of vs? All I can say Being cald thus late, is briefe, and darkly this: If D'Ambois mistresse, stay not her white hand With his forst bloud he shall remaine vntoucht: So father, shall your selfe, but by your selfe: To make this Augurie plainer: when the voice Of D'Ambois shall inuoke me I will rise, Shining in greater light: and shew him all That will betide ye all; meane time be wise, And let him curb his rage, with policy.