Beaumont, Francis · published 1613 · first performed or written 1607 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 511 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
He set her on a milk-white steed, & himself upon a grey, He never turned his face again, but he bore her quite away. Unworthy of the kindness I have shown To thee, and thine: too late I well perceive Thou art consenting to my daughter's loss. Your daughter, what a stur's here we yer daughter? Let her go, think no more on her, but sing loud. If both my sons were on the gallows, I would sing, down, down, down: they fall down, and arise they never shall. Oh might I behold her once again, And she once more embrace her aged sire. Fie, how scurvily this goes: and she once more embrace her aged sire? you'll make a dog on her, will ye? she cares much for her aged sire I warrant you. She cares cares not for her daddy, nor she cares not for her mammy, For she is, she is, she is, she is my Lord of Low-gaues Lassie. For this thy scorn, I will pursue That son of thine to death. Do, and when you ha' killed him, Give him flowers enough Palmer: give him flowers enough, Give him red, and white, and blue, green, and yellow. I'll fetch my daughter. I'll hear no more a your daughter, it spoils my mirth. I say I'll fetch my daughter. Was never man for ladies' sake, down, down, Tormented as I poor sir Guy? de derry down, For Lucy's sake, that Lady bright, down, down, As ever men beheld with eye? de derry down. I'll be revenged by heaven. How dost thou like this George? Why this is well coney: but if Raph were hot once, thou shouldst see more. The Fiddlers go again husband. I Nell, but this is scurvy music: I gave the whoreson gallows money, and I think he has not got me the waits of Southwark, if I hear him not anon, I'll twinge him by the ears. You Musicians, play Baloo. No good George, let's ha' Lachrimae. Why this is it coney. It's all the better George: now sweet lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth? the confutation of Saint Paul? No lamb, that's Raph and Lucrece. Raph and Lucrece? which Raph? our Raph? No mouse, that was a Tartarian. A Tartarian? well, I'd the fiddlers had done, that we might see our Raph again. Come my dear dear, though we have lost our way, We have not lost ourselves: are you not weary With this nights wandering, broken from your rest? And frighted with the terror that attends The darkness of these wild unpeopled place? No my best friend, I cannot either fear, Or entertain a weary thought, whilst you (The end of all my full desires) stand by me. Let them that lose their hopes, and live to languish Amongst the number of forsaken lovers, Tell the long weary steps, and number time, Start at a shadow, and shrink up their blood, Whilst I (possessed with all content and quiet) Thus take my pretty love, and thus embrace him.
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)
He set her on a milk-white steed, & himselfe vpō a gray, He neuer turn'd his face againe, but he bore her quite away. Vnworthy of the kindnesse I haue shewn To thee, and thine: too late I well perceiue Thou art consenting to my daughters losse. Your daughter, what a stur's here wee yer daughter? Let her goe, thinke no more on her, but sing lowd. If both my sons were on the gallows, I would sing, downe, down, downe: they fall downe, and arise they neuer shall. Oh might I behold her once againe, And she once more embrace her aged sire. Fie, how scuruily this goes: and she once more imbrace her aged sire? you'l make a dogge on her, will yee? she cares much for her aged sire I warrant you. She cares cares not for her daddy, nor shee cares not for her mammie, For she is, she is, she is, she is my Lord of Low-gaues Lassie. For this thy scorne, I will pursue That sonne of thine to death. Do, and when you ha kild him, Giue him flowers i'now Palmer: giue him flowers i'now, Giue him red, and white, and blew, greene, and yellow. Il'e fetch my daughter. Il'e heare no more a your daughter, it spoyles my mirth. I say Il'e fetch my daughter. Was neuer man for Ladies sake, downe, downe, Tormented as I poore sir Guy? de derry downe, For Lucies sake, that Lady bright, downe, downe, As euer men beheld with eye? de derry downe. Il'e be reueng'd by heauen. How do'st thou like this George? Why this is well coney: but if Raph were hot once, thou shouldst see more. The Fidlers go againe husband. I Nell, but this is scuruy musicke: I gaue the whoreson gallowes money, and I thinke hee has not got mee the waits of South-warke, if I heare him not anan, Il'e twinge him by the eares. You Musicians, play Baloo. No good George, lets ha Lachrimae. Why this is it cony. It's all the better George: now sweet lambe, what story is that painted vpon the cloth? the confutation of Saint Paul? No lambe, that's Raph and Lucrece. Raph and Lucrece? which Raph? our Raph? No mouse, that was a Tartarian. A Tartarian? well, I'wood the fidlers had done, that wee might see our Raph againe. Come my deere deere, though we haue lost our way, We haue not lost our selues: are you not weary With this nights wandring, broken from your rest? And frighted with the terrour that attends The darknesse of these wilde vn-peopled place? No my best friend, I cannot either feare, Or entertaine a weary thought, whilst you (The end of all my full desires) stand by me. Let them that loose their hopes, and liue to languish Amongst the number of forsaken louers, Tell the long weary steps, and number time, Start at a shadow, and shrinke vp their bloud, Whilst I (possest with all content and quiet) Thus take my prettie loue, and thus imbrace him.