Marston, John · published 1607 · first performed or written 1607 (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (second) (?) T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.79 · 529 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
If love be holy, if that mystery, Of co-united hearts be sacrament? If the unbounded goodness have infused. A sacred ardour if a mutual love Into our Species, of those amorous joys, Those sweets of life, those comforts even in death Spring from a cause above our reasons reach? If that clear flame deduce his heat from heaven? 'tis like his cause's eternal always one As is th' instiller of divinest love Unchanged by time immortal maugre death. But O 'tis grown a figment: love a jest: A comic Poesy: the soul of man is rotten Even to the core no sound affection. Our love is hollow vaulted, stands on props, Of circumstance, profit or ambitious hopes. The other tissue Gown or Chain of pearl Makes my coy minx to nuzzle twixt the breasts Of her lulled husband, other carcanet, deflowers that lady's bed: one hundred more Marries that loathed blouse, one ten pound odds In promised jointure makes the hard palmed sire, Enforce his daughters tender lips to start At the sharp touch of some loathed stubbed beard, The first pure time the golden age is fled, Heaven knows I lie 'tis now the age of gold, For it all marreth and even virtues sold. Master will you trust me and I'll. Yes boy I'll trust thee, babes & fools i'll trust But servants faith, wives love, or females lust, A usurer and the devil sooner. Now were I dead, methinks I see a huff-cap swaggering sir, Pawning my plate, my jewels, mortgage? Nay Selling out right the purchase of my brows, Whilst my poor fatherless lean tottered son, My gentry's relics, my houses only prop, Is sawed asunder, lies forlorn, all bleak, Unto the griefs of sharp Necessities, Whilst his father in law, his father in Devil, or d d d d Devil, f f f father, Or who who who who; What you will, When is the marriage morn? even next rising son. Good, good, good, go to my brother Adrian, Tell him I'll lurk, stay, tell him I'll lurk, stay, Now is Albanos marriage bed new hung With fresh rich Curtains, now are my valence up, Embossed with orient Pearl, my grandsire's gift, Now are the Lawn sheets fumed with violets, To fresh the palled lascivious appetite, Now work the Cooks, the pastry sweats with slaves, The Marchpanes glitter, now now the musicians Hover with nimble sticks over squeaking crowds, tickling the dried guts of a Mewing cat, The Tailors, Starchers, sempsters, Butchers, poulterers, Mercers, all, all, all, now now now, none think a me, the f f f French is te f f f fine man, de p p p pock man, de— Peace, peace, stand concealed, yonder by all descriptions is he would be husband of my Mistress: your wife hah meat hah. Uds so, so, so, soul that's my velvet cloak. O peace, observe him, hah. 'Tis most true Sir, I heard all, I saw all, I tell all, and I hope you believe all, the sweet Francisco Soranza, the Perfumer is by your rival Iacomo, and your two brothers that must be, when you have married your wife, that shall be.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
If loue be holy, if that mistery, Of co-vnited hearts be sacrament? If the vnbounded goodnesse haue infus'd. A sacred ardor if a mutuall loue Into our Speties, of those amorous ioyes, Those sweetes of life, those comfortes euen in death Spring from a cause aboue our reasones reach? If that cleere flame deduce his heate from heauen? Tis like his cause's eternall alwaies one As is th' instiller of deuinest loue Vnchangd by time immortall mauger death. But O tis growne a figment: loue a iest: A commick Poesie: the soule of man is rotten Euen to the core no sound affection. Our loue is hollow vaulted, stands on proppes, Of circumstance, profit or ambitious hopes. The other tissue Gowne or Chaine of pearle Makes my coy minx to nussell twixt the breastes Of her lull'd husband, tother Carkanet, Deflowres that Ladies bed: one hundred more Marries that loath'd blowze, one ten pound oddes In promis'd ioynture makes the hard palm'd sire, Inforce his daughters tender lippes to start At the sharpe touch of some loath'd stubbed beard, The first pure time the golden age is fled, Heauen knowes I lie tis now the age of gold, For it all marreth and euen virtues sold. Master will you trust me and Ile. Yes boy Ile trust thee, babes & fooles ile trust But seruants faith, wiues loue, or femalls lust, A vsurer and the diuill sooner. Now were I dead, Me thinkes I see a huff-cap swaggering sir, Pawning my plate, my iewells, morgage? Nay Selling out right the purchace of my browes, Whilst my poore fatherlesse leane totterd sonne, My gentries reliques, my houses onely prop, Is saw'd a sunder, lyes forlorne, all bleake, Vnto the griefes of sharpe Necessities, Whilst his father in law, his father in Diuell, or d d d d Diuill, f f f father, Or who who who who; What you will, When is the marriage morne? Euen next rising sonne. Good, good, good, go to my brother Adrian, Tell him Ile lurck, stay, tell him Ile lurck, stay, Now is Albanos marriage bed new hung With fresh rich Curtaines, now are my valence vp, Imbost with orient Pearle, my Gransires gift, Now are the Lawne sheetes fum'd with Vyolets, To fresh the pawld lasciuious appetite, Now worke the Cookes, the pastry sweates with slaues, The March-panes glitter, now now the musitions Houer with nimble stickes ore squeaking crowds, Ticling the dryed guttes of a Mewing Catt, The Taylors, Starchers, Semsters, Butchers, Pulterors, Mercers, all, all, all, now now now, none thinke a mee, the f f f French is te f f f fine man, de p p p pock man, de— Peace, peace, stand conceald, yonder by all discriptions is he would be husband of my Mistresse: your wife hah meate hah. Vds so, so, so, soule thats my veluet cloake. O peace, obserue him, hah. 'Tis most true Sir, I heard all, I saw all, I tell all, and I hope you beleeue all, the sweete Francisco Soranza, the Perfumer is by your riuall Iacomo, and your two brothers that must be, when you haue married your wife, that shall be.