Mason, John · published 1610 · first performed or written 1607 [1607-1608] (Annals) tragedy · Children of the King's Revels T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.84 · 466 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Ha: Amada: dearest Lord: your sense And know me. Ha Timoclea: thy love and pardon, I was o'erborne, And carried from myself with idle thoughts Of what sad melancholy suggested in me: What comfort bringst thou? hath thy dead shape been powerful unto fear? stood they amazed? Their eyes like fired stars set on thy face: Their speech abrupt and short: their hair upright? Stiff like the quills of Porcupines? art blessed? I am: if what you speak may make me blessed. It makes us happy: gives our hope true life. Neither my life nor hope to be so blessed Makes me so happy as thy love dear Turk. Were I a Venus thou shouldst be my Mars, And I would court thee even in Phoebus' sight, Although it moved an envy in the gods. Be Jovial: & like Salmecis, thy love Shall cling about thy neck. I am not sportful: I'll dance before thee like a fairy Nymph, And with my pleasing motions make thee sport: I'll court thee naked, as did the Queen of thoughts Her sullen boy, and all to make thee sport. You are not pleasing. Not pleasing gentle Turk? Time hath not set the characters of age On my smooth brow: my pulses beat as high, As when my first youth lifted up my blood, I buy no beauty: nor hath nature been A niggard in my face: I am yet young Fresh and delight some, as the chequered spring, The Lily and the Rose grow in my cheeks, And make a bed for love to rest him on. But I am restless. Rest thee on my breast. No I must pilgrim to a love divine. Love me and unto love I'll build a shrine And on an Altar offer to our loves, The thighs of Sparrows and of Turtle Doves. You are importunate. Yield then and I have done. No more: Fair Amada's the saint that I adore. Amada: minion is it you? Makes me thus sue unheard? my daughter Amada Have I in my bosom nursed a snake: No fierce streamed torrent nor no storm at Sea, No stepdame is half so raging: my blood was not so strong, When thou wert got: now us like the Sea, My soul a Bark that runs with wind and tide And cannot stop: the Anchor of my thoughts (Reason) is lost, and like the vine-gods priests Running down Nisa or from Pindus' top, I am unstaid and doubtful in my course. O the strong power of sense: I must do that Which all succeeding times to come shall speak Yet not believe; all say 'twas done, yet none Say 'twas well done. Love is a God, Strong, free, unbounded, and as some define, Fears nothing, pitieth none: such love is mine.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Ha: Amada: dearest Lord: your sence And know me. Ha Timoclea: thy loue and pardon, I was oreborne, And carried from my selfe with iole thoughts Of what sad melancholly suggested in me: What comfort bringst thou? hath thy dead shape Bene powerfull vnto feare? stood they a mazd? Their eyes like fiered starres set on thy face: Their speeche abrupt and short: their haire vpright? Stiffe like the quils of Porcupines? art blest? I am: if what you speak may make me blest. It makes vs happy: giues our hope true life. Neither my life nor hope to be so blest Makes me so happy as thy loue deare Turke. Were I a Venus thou shouldst be my Mars, And I would court thee euen in Phebus sight, Although it mou'd an enuy in the gods. Be Ioial: & like Salmecis, thy loue Shall cling about thy necke. I am not sportfull: Ile dance before thee like a faiery Nimph, And with my pleasing motions make thee spor: Ile court thee nak'd, as did the Queene of thoughts Her sullen boy, and all to make thee sport. You are not pleasing. Not pleasing gentle Turke? Time hath not set the caracters of age On my smooth browe: my pulses beate as high, As when my first youth lifted vp my blood, I buy no beauty: nor hath nature bene A niggard in my face: I am yet yong Fresh and delight some, as the checkerd spring, The Lilly and the Rose growe in my chekes, And make a bed for loue to rest him on. But I am restles. Rest thee on my brest. No I must pilgrine to a loue deuine. Loue me and vnto loue Ile build a shrine And on an Altar offer to our loues, The thighs of Sparrowes and of Turtle Doues. You are importunate. Yeeld then and I haue done. No more: Faire Amada's the saint that I adore. Amada: minyon is it you? Makes me thus sue vnheard? my daughter Amada Haue I in my bosome nurst a snake: No fierce streamd torrent nor no storme at Sea, No stepdame is halfe so raging: my blood was not so strong, When thou wert got: now us like the Sea, My soule a Barke that runnes with wind and tyde And cannot stop: the Anchor of my thoughts (Reason) is lost, and like the vine-gods priess Running downe Nia or from Pindus top, I am vnstaid and doubtfull in my couse. O the strong power of sence: I must do that Which all succeeding times to come shall speake Ye not beleeue; all say twas done, yet none Say twas well done. Loue is a God, Strong, free, vnbounded, and as some define, Feares nothing, pittieth none: such loue is mine.