Markham, Gervase / Machin, Lewis · published 1608 · first performed or written 1608 [1607-1608] (Annals) tragicomedy · Children of the King's Revels unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 525 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
No hope is left, dear Philocles regard my miseries. Untie that wilful let which holds in speech, And make me happy through thy noble pity. I see the face of mine ill shaped contempt, Where like with like hath quit most injury: Then speak my Lord, utter one angel breath To give me joy, and save me from strange death. What not a word, hath this small silence brought An utter detestation to thy speech? Wilt thou nor hear, nor speak, nor pity me, The gentle Gods move thee to more remorse. What, wilt not be? Fond maid thou hast drawn affliction on thy head, And thralled thyself to worst calamity: Till morrow sun thy incantations use, But then effectless, all hopes desperate, Wert thou my bosom love thou diest the death, Best ease for madness is the loss of breath. O Philocles I am no courts disgrace, No cities Prostitution, country's shame, Nor one shall bring Troy's fire unto thy house, Turn not away hard hearted Myrmidon, See, on my knees I'll follow thee in court, And make the world condemn thy cruelty: Yet if my tears may mollify thy heart, Receive them as the floods of strangest rides, Turn not thy face from her that dotes on thee, Love now hath made me subject to thy will, And pale disdain hath ta'en revenge on me. Behold my nerves I'll wear upon this earth, And fill this roof with lamentations. What dost thou smile, hath fury so much sway As even to banish poor civility? Then be thyself, and break thine itching spleen: For I disdain thy ransoms victory, Life thou art weary brought, welcome my death, Sweet because wished for, good because my choice: Yet when I am dead, this of me shall be said, A cruel Prince murdered a loving maid. And after ages to th'unborn shall tell, Thy hate, my love, thy envy and my hell. Nay do not speak I charge thee, go let nothing move thee, Death is my glory, since thou wilt not love me. Grief which controls the motions of our thoughts, Rains in my blood and makes me passions slave, My sister's misery torments my soul, And breaks my gall when I but think of her: She was bewitched with spells to her misfortune, Or else borne hapless under a lowering star, And 'tis her fate to be thus miserable: O Philocles hadst thou no other scale To mount thy heaven but by our miseries, Must all the noble fame of our great house Waste down her royal pillars to make steps For thee to climb to glory? well I see Thou plots our shames in thy great dignity. Patience great Lord, me thinks these ill raised storms Have not more violence than may be borne, Come we will both go sue unto the King. We there will kneel and pray eternally, And never rise till he remit his doom: It shall be so, I will unto the King, To beg great favour for a small offence: But if she die for this, than King take heed, Thee and thy fortunes by this hand shall bleed.
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)
No hope is left, deare Philocles regard my miseries. Vntie that wilfull let which holds in speech, And make me happy through thy noble pity. I see the face of mine ill shapt contempt, Where like with like hath quit most iniury: Then speake my Lord, vtter one Angell breath To giue me ioy, and saue me from strange death. What not a word, hath this small silence brought An vtter detestation to thy speech? Wilt thou nor heare, nor speak, nor pity me, The gentle Gods moue thee to more remorse. What, wilt not be? Fond maid thou hast drawne affliction on thy head, And thrald thy selfe to worst calamity: Till morrow sunne thy incantations vse, But then effectlesse, all hopes desperate, Wert thou my bosome loue thou diest the death, Best ease for madnesse is the losse of breath. O Philocles I am no courts disgrace, No cities Prostitution, countries shame, Nor one shall bring Troys fire vnto thy house, Turne not away hard harted Mirmidon, See, on my knees Ile follow thee in court, And make the world condemne thy cruelty: Yet if my teares may mollifie thy heart, Receiue them as the floods of strangest rides, Turne not thy face from her that doates on thee, Loue now hath made me subiect to thy will, And pale disdaine hath tane reuenge on me. Behold my nerues Ile weare vpon this earth, And fill this roofe with lamentations. What dost thou smile, hath fury so much sway As euen to banish poore ciuilitie? Then be thy selfe, and breake thine itching spleene: For I disdaine thy ransomes victorie, Life thou art weary brought, welcome my death, Sweet because wisht for, good because my choice: Yet when I am dead, this of me shall be said, A cruell Prince murdered a louing maid. And after ages to th'unborne shall tell, Thy hate, my loue, thy enuie and my hell. Nay do not speak I charge thee, go let nothing moue thee, Death is my glory, since thou wilt not loue me. GRiefe which controles the motions of our thoughts, Raines in my bloud and makes me passions slaue, My sisters miserie torments my soule, And breaks my gall when I but thinke of her: She was bewicht with spelles to her misfortune, Or else borne haplesse vnder a lowring starre, And tis her fate to be thus miserable: O Philocles hadst thou no other scale To mount thy heauen but by our miseries, Must all the noble fame of our great house Waste downe her royall pillars to make steps For thee to climbe to glory? well I see Thou plots our shames in thy great dignity. Patience great Lord, me thinkes these ill raisd stormes Haue not more violence then may be borne, Come we will both go sue vnto the King. We there will kneele and pray eternally, And neuer rise till he remit his dome: It shall be so, I will vnto the King, To beg great fauour for a small offence: But if she dy for this, then King take heede, Thee and thy fortunes by this hand shall bleed.