Marston, John / Machin, Lewis / Barkstead, William · published 1613 · first performed or written 1607 [c.1607-1608; revised 1609-1613] (Annals) tragedy · Children of the Queen's Revels (?); Children of the King's Revels (?) · Whitefriars unassigned nearest T48 Addressing a lady: love, desire and inti · 472 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T48: lady, love, heart, fair, eyes, la, lord, tears, fie, face.
You put me to my book my Lord, will not that save me. Yes madam, in the everlasting world. Amen, Amen. While thou wert my servant, thou hast ever said, Amen to all my wishes, witness this spectacle: where's my Lord Medina? Here Isabella. What would you? May we not be reprieved? Mine honours past, you may not. No, 'tis my honour past, Thine honours past indeed. Then there's no hope of absolute remission. For that your holy Confessor will tell you, Be dead to this world, for I swear you die, Were you my father's daughter. Can you do nothing my Lord Cardinal? More than the world sweet Lady, help to save What hand of man, wants power to destroy. You're all for this world, then why not I? Were you in health and youth, like me my Lord, Although you merited the crown of life, And stood in state of grace, assured of it: Yet in this fearful separation, Old as you are, e'en till your latest gasp, You'd crave the help of the Physician: And wish your days lengthened one summer longer, Though all be grief, labour and misery, Yet none will part with it, that I can see. Up to the scaffold with her, 'tis late. Better late than never my good Lord you think: You use square dealing, Medina's mighty Duke: Tyrant of France, sent hither by the devil. The fitter to meet you. Peace: Good my Lord in death do not provoke her. Servant low as my destiny I kneel to thee, Honouring in death, thy manly loyalty: And whatsoe'er become of my poor soul, The joys of both worlds evermore be thine. Commend me to the Noble Count Guiaca, That should have shared thy valour, and my hatred: Tell him I pray his pardon, and Medina, art yet inspired from heaven, Show thy creator's Image: be like him, Father of mercy. Head's man, do thine office. Now God lay all thy sins upon thy head, And sink thee with them, to infernal darkness, Thou teacher of the furies cruelty. O madam: teach yourself a better prayer, This is your latest hour. He is mine enemy, his sight torments me, I shall not die in quiet. I'll be gone: off with her head there. Tak'st thou delight, to torture misery? Such mercy find thou in the day of doom. My Lord: here is a holy Friar desires, To have some conference with the prisoners. It is in private, what I have to say, With favour of your fatherhood. friar: in God's name welcome. Lady: it seems your eye is still the same, Forgetful of what most it should behold, Do not you know me then? Holy Sir: so far you are gone from my memory, I must take truce with time, ere I can know you.
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)
You put me to my booke my Lord, will not that saue me. Yes Madame, in the euerlasting world. Amen, Amen. While thou wert my seruant, thou hast euer said, Amen to all my wishes, witnesse this spectacle: Wher's my Lord Medina? Here Isabella. What would you? May we not be reprieu'd? Mine honors past, you may not. No, tis my honor past, Thine honors past indeed. Then ther's no hope of absolute remission. For that your holy Confessor will tell you, Be dead to this world, for I sweare you dye, Were you my fathers daughter. Can you doe nothing my Lord Cardinall? More then the world sweet Lady, help to saue What hand of man, wants power to destroy. You'r all for this world, then why not I? Were you in health and youth, like me my Lord, Although you merited the crowne of life, And stood in state of grace, assur'd of it: Yet in this fearefull separation, Old as you are, e'ne till your latest gaspe, You'd craue the help of the Phisition: And wish your dayes lengthn'd one summer longer▪ Though all be griefe, labour and misery, Yet none will part with it▪ that I can see. Vp to the scaffold with her, 'tis late. Better late then neuer my good Lord you thinke: You vse square dealing, Medina's mighty Duke: Tyrant of France, sent hither by the diuell. The fitter to meete you. Peace: Good my Lord in death doe not prouoke her. Seruant low as my destiny I kneele to thee, Honouring in death, thy manly loyaltie: And what so e'er become of my poore soule, The ioyes of both worlds euermore be thine. Commend me to the Noble Count Guiaca, That should haue shared thy valour, and my hatred: Tell him I pray his pardon, and Medina, art yet inspir'd from heau'n, Shew thy Creators Image: be like him, Father of mercy. Head's man, doe thine office. Now God lay all thy sinnes vpon thy head, And sinke thee with them, to infernall darknesse, Thou teacher of the furies cruelty. O Madame: teach your selfe a better prayer, This is your latest hower. He is mine enemie, his sight torments me, I shall not die in quiet. I'le be gone: off with her head there. Tak'st thou delight, to torture misery? Such mercie finde thou in the day of doome. My Lord: here is a holy Frier desires, To haue some conference with the prisoners. It is in priuate, what I haue to say, With fauour of your father-hood. Frier: in Gods name welcome. Lady: it seemes your eye is stil the same, Forgetfull of what most it should behold, Doe not you know me then? Holy Sir: so farre you are gone from my memorie, I must take truce with time, ere I can know you.