Beaumont, Francis / Fletcher, John · published 1619 · first performed or written 1610 [c.1610-1611] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
I will not promise to preserve your life if you do stay. I would give half my land that I durst fight with that proud man a little, if I had men to hold him, I would beat him, till he asked me mercy. Sir will you begone? I dare not stay, but I will beat my servants all over for this. This old fellow haunts me, But the distracted carriage of mine Amintor, Takes deeply on me, I will find the cause, I fear his conscience cries, he wronged Aspasia. Man's eyes are not subtle to perceive My inward misery, I bear my grief Hid from the world, how art thou wretched then, For aught I know all husbands are like me, And every one I talk with of his wife, Is but a well dissembler of his woes As I am, would I knew it for the rareness Afflicts me now. Amintor, we have not enjoyed our friendship of late, for we were wont to charge our souls in talk. Melantius, I can tell the a good jest of Strato, and a Lady the last day. How was't; Why such an odd one. I have longed to speak with you, not of an idle jest that's forced, but of matter you are bound to utter to me. What is that my friend? I have observed your words fall from your tongue Wildly, and all your carriage Like one that strives to show his merry mood, When he were ill disposed, you were not wont To put such scorn into your speech— yow wear Upon your face ridiculous jollity, Some sadness sits here, which your tongue would Cover over with smiles, and 'twill not be, What is it? A sadness here, what cause Can Fate provide for me to make me so, Am I not loved through all this Isle, the King rains greatness on me, have I not received A Lady to my bed, that in her eye Keeps mounting fire, and on her tender cheeks Immutable colour, in her heart A prison for all virtue, are not you, Which is above all joys, my constant friend: What sadness can I have, no, I am light, And feel the courses of my blood more warm And stirring than they were; faith marry too, And you will feel so unexpressed a joy In chaste embraces, that you will indeed Appear another. You may shape Amintor Causes to cozen the whole world withal, And yourself too, and 'tis not like a friend, To hide your soul from me, 'tis not your nature To be thus idle, I have seen you stand, As you were blasted midst of all your mirth, Call thrice aloud, and then start, feigning joy So coldly, world? what do I hear, a friend Is nothing, heaven I would ha' told that man My secret sins, I'll search an unknown land, And there plant friendship, all is withered here, Come with a complement, I would have fought, Or told my friends a lied, ere soothed him so; Out of my bosom.
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 will not promise to preserue your life if you doe stay. I would giue halfe my land that I durst fight with that proud man a little, if I had men to hold him, I would beate him, till hee askt me mrcie. Sir will you begone? I dare not stay, but I will beate my seruants all ouer or this. This old fellow haunts me, But the distracted carriage of mine Amintor, Takes deeply on me, I will find the cause, I feare his conscience cries, he wrongd Aspatia. Mans eyes are not subtile to perceiue My inward miserie, I beare my griefe Hid from the world, how art thou wretched then, For ought I know all husbands are like me, And euery one I talke with of his wife, Is but a well dissembler of his woes As I am, would I knew it for the rarenesse Afflicts me now. Amintor, we haue not enioy'd our friendship of late, for we were wont to charge our soules in talke. Melantius, I can tell the a good est of Strato, and a Lady the last day. How wast; Why such an odde one. I haue longd to speake with you, not of an idle ist thats forst, but of matter you are bound to vtter to me. What is that my friend? I haue obseru'd your wordes fall from your tongue Wildely, and all your carriage Like one that striues to shew his merry moode, When he were ill dispos'd, you were not wont To put such scorue into your speech—yow weare Vpon your face ridiculous iollity, Some sadnesse sits heere, which your tongue would Couer ore with smiles, and twill not be, What is it? A sadnesse here, what cause Can Fate prouide for me to make me so, Am I not lou'd through all this Isle, the King Raines greatnesse on me, haue I not receiued A Lady to my bed, that in her eye Keepes mounting fire, and on her tender cheekes Immutable colour, in her heart A prison for all vertue, are not you, Which is aboue all ioyes, my constant friend: What saddnesse can I haue, no, I am light, And feele the courses of my blood more warme And stirring then they were; faith marry too, And you will feele so vnexprest a ioy In chaste embraces, that you will indeed Appeare another. You may shape Amintor Causes to cozen the whole world withall, And yourselfe too, and tis not like a friend, To hide your soule from me, tis not your nature To be thus idle, I haue seene you stand, As you were blasted midst of all your mirth, Call thrice aloud, and then start, fayning ioy So coldly, world? what doe I here, a friend Is nothing, heauen I would ha told that man My secret innes, ile search an vnknowne and, And there plant friendship, all is withered here, Come with a complement, I would haue fought, Or told my friends a lied, ere soothd him so; Out of my bosome.