Anonymous / Fletcher, John / Massinger, Philip · published 1621 · first performed or written 1617 [1613-1621] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T5 Christian faith, sin and salvation · 469 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T5: god, christ, david, sin, holy, israel, lord, mercy, sins, faith.
These truths are no man's tales, but all men's troubles, They are, though your strange greatness would out stare 'em: Witness the daily Libels, almost Ballads In every place, almost in every Province, Are made upon your lust, Tavern discourses, Crowds crammed with whispers; Nay, the holy Temples Are not without your curses: Now you would blush, But your black tainted blood dare not appear For fear I should fright that too. O ye gods! Do not abuse their names: they see your actions, And your conceald sins, though you work like Moles, Lies level to their justice. Art thou a son? The more my shame is of so bad a mother, And more your wretchedness you let me be so; But woman, for a mother's name hath left me Since you have left your honour; mend these ruins, And build again that broken fame, and fairly; Your most intemperate fires have burnt, and quickly Within these ten days take a Monastery, A most strict house, a house where none may whisper, Where no more light is known but what may make ye Believe there is a day where no hope dwells, Nor comfort but in tears O misery! And there to cold repentance, and starved penance Tie your succeeding days; or curse me heaven If all your guilded knaves, brokers, and bedders, Even he you built from nothing, strong Protaldy, Be not made ambling Geldings; all your maids, If that name do not shame 'em, fed with sponges To suck away their rankness; and yourself Only to empty Pictures and dead Arras Offer your old desires. I will not curse you, Nor lay a prophecy upon your pride, Though heaven might grant me both: unthankful, no, I nourished ye, 'twas I, poor I groaned for you, 'twas I felt what you suffered, I lamented When sickness or sad hours held back your sweetness; 'twas I paid for your sleeps, I watch your wakings: My daily cares and fears, that rid, played, walked, Discoursed, discovered, fed and fashioned you To what you are, and am I thus rewarded? But that I know these tears I could dote on 'em. And kneel to catch 'em as they fall, then knit 'em Into an Armlet, ever to be honoured; But woman, they are dangerous drops, deceitful, Full of the weeper, anger, and ill nature. In my last hours despised. That Text should tell, How ugly it becomes you to err thus; Your flames are spent, nothing but smoke maintains ye, And those your favour and your bounty suffers Lie not with you, they do but lay lust on you, And then embrace you as they caught a palsy; Your power they may love, and like spanish Jennets Commit with such a gust. I would take whipping, And pay a Fine now.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T30 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
These trueths are no mans tales, but all mens trobles, They are, though your strange greatnesse would out stare v'm: VVitnesse the daily Libels, almost Ballads In euery place, almost in euery Prouince, Are made vpon your lust, Tauerne discourses, Crowds cram'd with whisperes; Nay, the holy Temples Are not without your curses: Now you would blush, But your blacke tainted blood dare not appeare For feare I should fright that too. O yee gods! Doe not abuse their names: they see your actions, And your conceald sinnes, though you worke like Moles, Lyes leuell to their iustice. Art thou a sonne? The more my shame is of so bad a mother, And more your wretchednesse you let me bee so; But woman, for a mothers name hath left me Since you haue left your honour; mend these ruines, And build againe that broken fame, and fairely; Your most intemperate fiers haue burnt, and quickly VVithin these ten dayes take a Monasterie, A most strickt house, a house where none may whisper, VVhere no more light is knowne but what may make yee Beleeue there is a day where no hope dwels, Nor comfort but in teares O miserie! And there to cold repentance, and starud penance Tye your succeeding dayes; or curse me heauen If all your guilded knaues, brokers, and bedders, Euen he you built from nothing, strong Portalyde, Be not made ambling Geldings; all your maydes, If that name doe not shame vm, fed with spunges To sucke away their rancknesse; and your selfe Onely to emptie Pictures and dead Arras Offer your olde desires. I will not curse you, Nor lay a prophesie vpon your pride, Though heauen might grant me both: vnthankefull, no, I nourishd yee, twas I, poore I groand for you, Twas I felt what you sufferd, I lamented When sicknesse or sad houres held back your sweetnes; Twas I payd for your sleepes, I watch your wakings: My dayly cares and feares, that rid, plaid, walkt, Discoursd, discouerd, fed and fashiond you To what you are, and am I thus rewarded? But that I know these teares I could dote on em. And knecle to catch vm as they fall, then knit vm Into an Armlet, euer to be honourd; But woman, they are dangerous drops, deceitfuil, Full of the weeper, anger, and ill nature. In my last houres despisd. That Text should tell, How vgly it becomes you to erre thus; Your flames are spent, nothing but smoake maintaines ye, And those your fauour and your bounty suffers Lye not with you, they doe but lay lust on you, And then imbrace you as they caught a palsie; Your power they may loue, and like spanish Iennetts Commit with such a gust. I would take whipping, And pay a Fine now.