If It Be Not Good, the Devil Is in It (If This Be Not a Good Play, the Devil Is in It) · chunk 32 of 44
Dekker, Thomas · published 1612 · first performed or written 1611 [1611-1612] (Annals) comedy · Queen Anne's Men · Red Bull unassigned nearest T14 Royal love, favour and dynastic relation · 457 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
What art thou? Daughter to the calabrian Duke. The hapless troth-plight wife to your sad King. Alack! what notes are these I hear you sing? Pardon me madam: O Lady! want of you has bred much woe; Calamity does everywhere o'erflow, All long of your strange absence. I confess, Loaden with your king's contempt▪ and loath to bear Shame to my country▪ who from thence came freighted With many glorious honours, I preferred An obscure life before a public shame; O then (good father) be it not my blame If my supposed death, on the King have thrown, Dangers, which from himself are merely grown. What (princely Maiden) would you wish me do? I do conjure you sir, by all the bonds Tie you to pious Acts, you would make way To my incensed father; give him these lines, This Ring, pledge of that blessing he delivered me At our last parting: add unto these, if ever His daughter's memory to him were dear, To wound the Prince let his rash hand forbear: Since through each wound he gives him, I am slain, If the sad king you meet, venture to tell him That more for him, than he for me, I bide, And am his subject still, though not his bride. This shall I do, how shall we meet again? Fears follow me so, I know not where nor when. Hark how the sound of horror beats the Air, Your father's up in Arms and does prepare Sharp vengeance, for this city, woe is me: trust you To me, who near made much of woman yet, Rest here sweet maid, till an old Friar beget What joys he can to comfort thee? Is Clement grown A woman's man now? No, I am not mine own, Where your command may sway me: Much more in this, Where heaven) through virtues trial) makes you his. That's he, & there's your golden hire to charm him; Your fees i'll treble, let but lust's flame be felt; The Alpine-snow at the sun's beams does melt, So let your beauties thaw his frozen Age, Music first t'act an old Lecher, than a devil on hell's black Stage: Strike, strike your silver strings: brave set of whores? At your striking up, devils dance, and all hell roars. What sound offends mine ear? Soul of temptation? Enchanters I defy ye, get you gone; I'm blind to your enticements, from this I learn, At how dear rate the careless world does earn. That thing called pleasure: how many souls do fall? (Sold for a little guilt top daub this wall?) Hence with your witchcrafts, the sight of this drives hence, All thoughts besieging our voluptuous sense. Another bait, at this he will not bite.
seed 43: T14 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
What art thou? Daughter to the Calabriam Duke. The haples trothplight wife to your sad King. Alack! what notes are these I heare you sing? Pardon me madam: O Lady! want of you has bred much woe; Calamitie does euery where ore-flow, All long of your strange absence. I confesse, Loaden with your Kings contempt▪ and loath to beare Shame to my country▪ who from thence came freighted With many glorious honours, I preferd An obscure life before a publick shame; O then (good ther) be it not my blame If my supposde death, on the King haue throwne, Dangers, which from himselfe are meerely growne. What (princely Mayden) would you wish me doe? I doe conure you sir, by all the bonds Tye you to pious Acts, you would make way To my incensed father; giue him these lines, This Ring, pledge of that blessing he deliuerd me At our last parting: adde vnto these, if euer His daughters memory to him were deare, To wound the Prince let his rash hand forbeare: Snce through each woūd he giues him, I am slaine, If the sad king you meete, venture to tell him That more for him, than he for me, I bide, And am his subiect stil, tho not his bride. This shall I doe, how shall we meete againe? Feares follow me so, I know not where nor when. Hearke how the sound of horror beates the Ayre, Your fathers vp in Armes and does prepare Sharpe vengnce, for this citie, woe is me: trust yo To me, who nere made much of woman yet, Rest here sweete maide, till an old Frier beget What ioyes he can to comfort thee? Is Clement growne A womans man now? No, I am not mine owne, Where your command may sway me: Much more in this, Where heauen) through vertues triall) makes you his. Thats he, & theres your golden hire to charme him; Your fees ile treble, let but lusts flame be felt; The Alpine-snow at the un's beames does melt, So let your beauties haw his frozen Age, Musick first act an old Lecher, then a diuell on hells black Stage: Strike, strike your siluer strings: braue set of whores? At your striking vp, diuell dance, and all hell roares. What sound offends mine eare? Soule of temptation? Enchanters I defie yee, get you gon; Ime blind to your enticements, from this I learne, At how deere rate the careles world does arne. That thing calld pleasure: how many soules doe fall? (Sold for a little guilt top daube this wall?) Hence with your witchcrafts, the sight of this driues hence, All thoughts besieging our voluptuous sence. Another baite, at this he will not bite.