Beaumont, Francis / Fletcher, John · published 1619 · first performed or written 1610 [c.1610-1611] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
I sleep and am to temperate, come to bed, Or by those hairs which if thou hast a soul; like to thy locks, Were threads for Kings to wear About their arms. Why so perhaps they are. I'll drag thee to my bed, and make thy tongue Undo this wicked oath, or on thy flesh I'll print a thousand wounds to let out life. I fear thee not, do what thou darest to me, Every ill sounding word, or threatening look Thou showest to me, will be revenged at full. It will not sure Euadne. Do not you hazard that. ha' ye your Champions. Alas Amintor thinkst thou I forbear To sleep with thee, because I have put on A maiden's strictness, look upon these cheeks, And thou shalt find the hot and rising blood Unapt for such a vow, no, in this heart There dwells as much desire, and as much will, To put that wished act, as ever yet Was known to woman, and they have been shown Both, but it was the folly of thy youth, To think this beauty, to what land soe'er It shall be called, shall stoop to any second, I do enjoy the best, and in that height Have sworn to stand or die, you guess the man. No, let me know the man that wrongs me so, That I may cut his body into motes, And scatter it before the Northern wind. You dare not strike him. Do not wrong me so, Yes, if his body were a poisonous plant, That it were death to touch, I have a soul Will throw me on him. Why 'tis the King. The King. What will you do now? It is not the King. What did he make this match for dull Amintor. Oh thou hast named a word that wipes away All thoughts revengeful, in that sacred word, The King, there lies a terror, what frail man Dares lift his hand against it, let the Gods Speak to him when they please, till when let us Suffer, and wait. Why should you fill yourself so full of heat, And haste so to my bed, I am no virgin. What Devil hath put it in thy fancy then To marry me. Alas, I must have one To father children, and to bear the name Of husband to me, that my sin may be More honourable. What strange thing am I? A miserable one, one that myself Am sorry for. Why show it then in this, If thou hast pity, though thy love be none, Kill me, and all true lovers that shall love In after ages crossed in their desires, Shall bless thy memory, and call thee good, Because such mercy in thy breast was found, To rid a lingering wretch. I must have one To fill thy room again if thou wert dead, Else by this night I could, I pity thee.
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)
I sleepe and am to temporate, come to bed, Or by those haires which if thou hast a soule; like to thy locks, Were threads for Kings to weare About their armes. Why so perhaps they are. Ile dragge thee to my bed, and make thy tongue Vndoe this wicked oath, or on thy flesh Ile print a thousand wounds to let out life. I feare thee not, doe what thou darst to me, Euery ill sounding word, or threatning looke Thou shewest to me, will be reueng'd at full. It will not sure Euadne. Doe not you hazard that. Ha ye your Champions. Alas Amintor thinkst thou I forbeare To sleepe with thee, because I haue put on A maidens strictnesse, looke vpon these cheekes, And thou shalt finde the hot and rising blood Vnapt for such a vow, no, in this heart There dwels as much desire, and as much will, To put that wished act, as euer yet Was knowne to woman, and they haue been showne Both, but it was the folly of thy youth, To thinke this beauty, to what land soe're It shall be cald, shall stoope to any second, I doe enioy the best, and in that height Haue sworne to stand or die, you guesse the man. No, let me know the man that wrongs me so That I may cut his body into motes, And scatter it before the Northen winde. You dare not strike him. Doe not wrong me so, Yes, if his body were a poysonous plant, That it were death to touch, I haue a soule Will throw me on him. Why tis the King. The King. What will you doe now? It is not the King. What did he make this match for dull Amintor. Oh thou hast nam'd a word that wipes away All thoughts reuengefull, in that sacred word, The King, there lies a terror, what fraile man Dares lift his hand against it, let the Gods Speake to him when they please, till when let vs Suffer, and waie. Why should you fill your selfe so full of heate, And haste so to my bed, I am no virgin. What Diuell hath put it in thy fancy then To mary mee. Alas, I must haue one To father children, and to beae the name Of husband to me, that my sinne may be More honorable. What strange thing am I? A miserable one, one that my selfe Am sory for. Why shew it then in this, If thou hast pittie, though thy loue be none, Kill me, and all true louers that shall loue In after ages crost in their desires, Shall blesse thy memorie, and call thee good, Because such mercy in thy breast was found, To rid a lingring wretch. I must haue one To fill thy roome againe if thou wert dead, Else by this night I could, I piy thee.