Massinger, Philip · published 1624 · first performed or written 1623 [licensed for stage, Dec 3] (Annals) tragicomedy · Lady Elizabeth's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
And 'tis but justice, you should bring us off. And we expect it. Hear then, and obey me, And I will either save you, or fall with you; Man the Walls strongly, and make good the Ports Boldly deny their entrance, and rip up Your grievances, and what compelled you to This desperate course: if they disdain to hear Of composition, we have in our powers Their aged Fathers, Children, and their Wives, Who to preserve themselves, must willingly Make intercession for us. 'Tis not time now To talk, but do. A glorious end or freedom Is now proposed us; stand resolved for either, And like good fellows, live, or die together. I am so far from envy, I am proud You have outstripped me in the race of honour. O 'twas a glorious day, and bravely won! Your bold performance gave such lustre to Timoleon's wise directions, as the Army Rests doubtful, to whom they stand most engaged For their so great success. The Gods first honoured, The glory be the Generals; 'tis far from me To be his rival. You abuse your fortune, To entertain her choice, and gracious favours, With a contracted brow; Plumed victory Is truly painted with a cheerful look, Equally distant from proud insolence, And base dejection. O Timagoras, You only are acquainted with the cause, That loads my sad heart with a hill of lead. Whose ponderous weight, neither my new got honour, Assisted by the general applause The soldier crowns it with: nor all wars glories Can lessen, or remove; and would you please, With fit consideration to remember, How much I wrong Cleora's innocence, With my rash doubts; and what a grievous penance, She did impose upon her tender sweetness, To pluck away the Vulture jealousy, That fed upon my Liver: you cannot blame me, But call it a fit justice on myself, Though I resolve to be a stranger to The thought of mirth, or pleasure. You have redeemed The forfeit of your fault, with such a ransom Of honourable action, as my Sister Must of necessity confess her sufferings Weighed down by your fair merits; and when she views you Like a triumphant Conqueror, carried through The Streets of Syracusa, the glad people Pressing to meet you, and the Senators Contending who shall heap most honours on you; The Oxen crowned with Garlands led before you Appointed for the Sacrifice; and the Altars Smoking with thankful Incense to the gods: The Soldiers chanting loud hymns to your praise: The windows filled with Matrons, and with Virgins, Throwing upon your head, as you pass by, The choicest Flowers; and silently invoking The Queen of Love, with their particular vows, To be thought worthy of you; can Cleora, (Though, in the glass of self-love, she behold Her best deserts) but with all joy acknowledge, What she endured, was but a noble trial You made of her affection? and her anger Rising from your too amorous ears, soon drenched In Lethe, and forgotten.
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)
And 'tis but iustice, you should bring vs off. And we expect it. Heare then, and obey me, And I will either saue you, or fall with you; Man the Walls strongly, and make good the Ports Boldly deny their entrance, and rippe vp Your grieuances, and what compel'd you to This desperate course: if they disdaine to heare Of composition, we haue in our powers Their aged Fathers, Children, and their Wiues, Who to preserue themselues, must willingly Make intercession for vs. 'Tis not time now To talke, but doe. A glorious end or freedome Is now propos'd vs; stand resolu'd for either, And like good fellowes, liue, or die togeather. I am so farre from enuie, I am proud You haue outstrip'd me in the race of honour. O 'twas a glorious day, and brauely wonne! Your bold performance gaue such lustre to Timoleons wise directions, as the Armie Rests doubtfull, to whom they stand most ingag'de For their so great successe. The Gods first honour'd, The glory be the Generalls; 'tis farre from mee To be his riuall. You abuse your fortune, To entertaine her choyce, and gratious fauours, With a contracted browe; Plum'd victorie Is truly painted with a cheerefull looke, Equally distant from proud insolence, And base deiection. O Timagoras, You onely are acquainted with the cause, That loades my sad heart with a hill of lead. Whose ponderous waight, neither my new got honour, Assisted by the generall applause The souldier crownes it with: nor all warres glories Can lessen, or remoue; and would you please, With fit consideraton to remember, How much I wrong Cleoras innocence, With my rash doubts; and what a grieuous pennance, Shee did impose vpon her tender sweetnesse, To plucke away the Vulture iealousie, That fed vpon my Liuer: you cannot blame me, But call it a fit iustice on my selfe, Though I resolue to be a stranger to The thought of mirth, or pleasure. You haue redeem'd The forfeit of your fault, with such a ransome Of honourable action, as my Sister Must of necessitie confesse her suffrings Weigh'd downe by your faire merits; and when she views you Like a triumphant Conquerour, carried through The Streets of Syracusa, the glad people Pressing to meet you, and the Senators Contending who shall heape most honours on you; The Oxen crown'd with Girlands led before you Appointed for the Sacrifice; and the Altars Smoaking with thankfull Incense to the gods: The Souldiers chaunting loud hymnes to your praise: The windowes fill'd with Matrons, and with Virgins, Throwing vpon your head, as you passe by, The choycest Flowers; and silently inuoking The Queene of Loue, with their particular vowes, To be thought worthy of you; can Cleora, (Though, in the glasse of selfe-loue, shee behold Her best deserts) but with all ioy acknowledge, What she indur'd, was but a noble tryall You made of her affection? and her anger Rising from your too amorous eares, soone drench'd In Lethe, and forgotten.