Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
We would gladly have A poison teach him linger to his death, And a month hence we shall expect his knell. Now are we entered, and now to retire Were the worse treason: like an enraged fire The more we are opposed, the more we'll spread And make our foes our fuel: to be head we'll cut off any member, and condemn Virtue of folly for a Diadem, Banish Religion, and make blood as cheap As when two Armies turned into one heap Of carcases, lie groveling, what care we For the slight tainture of disloyalty? None will commend the race till it be run, And these are deeds not praised till they are done. My Picinino, holds this sad news true? My Iuliano, yes; 'tis in each voice That some persuasion flattering Ferdinand, That the French journey was but a report, Made him revoke Alphonso, his brave son, Who with an Army had endangered us: For the wise old man fearing, a deep fear Might arm an enemy, else too weak for him, And make us hasten the French war, gave o'er His war with us: but when he understands That all this quiet does not purchase peace, The cozened Prince seeks the sure peace of death, And leaves his ruin to destroy his son. Will the French come? then prithee, Death, come too. Why should our eyes dulled to all other sights By Age and sorrow, be reserved for sight Of war and sorrow? o discourteous heavens! Why have you dallied with us to white hairs? Why kept till this time, must we perish now? O wherefore are we come so near the grave And are not in it yet? yet pardon me Good heaven, your acts are above question: Yet I may shed these tears for Italy; Slave of that world, which once, her valour slaved, Restoring back her triumphs with her spoil, Distracted in herself, and only fit To make a bankrupt Poet heal his credit With matter for fresh Tragedies. Good heaven! Is this to ease misfortune, or increase it? If Passion could whine out felicity, Or plenteous tears could drown unhappiness, I have eyes too, and they contain their showers, Nor would I ere be niggard of a Grief. But tears being only tears, an easy dew Of childish eyes, and all the rest of Grief Commanding smiles, more than Compassion, I thank my Genius I am resolute To laugh at Fortune when she is most angry. Such laughter may have little mirth in it, And I shall have more comfort in a tear. You may, good Fountaine, y, droppe on, to soe, If so much moisture will revive thy cheeks Whilst I'll be young with laughter. I am he That fears a sorrow, more than misery. THis is the place, and this the time: good heaven! What an odd place, and what an uncouth time? Had I been hired to murder Sforza here, Hell could not prompt more fit occasion. I like nor it, nor him: but here he comes.
seed 43: T8 · seed 44: T8 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
We would gladly haue A poyſon teach him linger to his death, And a month hence we ſhall expect his knell. Now are we entred, and now to retire Were the worſe treaſon: like an inrag'd fire The more we are oppos'd, the more wee'l ſpred And make our foes our fewell: to be head Wee'l cut off any member, and condemne Vertue of folly for a Diadem, Baniſh Religion, and make blood as cheape As when two Armies turn'd into one heape Of carcaſſes, lye grou ling, what care we For the ſlight tainture of diſloyalty? None will commend the race till it be run, And theſe are deeds not prais'd till they are done. My Picinino, holds this ſad newes true? My Iuliano, yes; tis in each voyce That ſome perſwaſion flatt'ring Ferdinand, That the French iourney was but a report, Made him reuoke Alphonſo, his braue ſonne, Who with an Army had indanger'd vs: For the wiſe old man fearing, a deepe feare Might arme an enemy, elſe too weake for him, And make vs haſten the French warre, gaue o're His warre with vs: but when he vnderſtands That all this quit does not purchaſe peace, The coozen'd Prince ſeekes the ſure peace of death, And leaues his ruine to deſtroy his ſonne. Will the French come? then prethee, Death, come too. Why ſhould our eyes dull'd to all other ſights By Age and ſorrow, be reſeru'd for ſight Of warre and ſorrow? ô diſcourteous heau'ns! Why haue you dally'd with vs to white hayres? Why kept till this time, muſt we periſh now? O wherefore are we come ſo neere the graue And are not in it yet? yet pardon me Good heau'n, your acts are aboue queſtion: Yet I may ſhed theſe teares for Italy; Slaue of that world, which once, her valour ſlau'd, Reſtoring backe her triumph's with her ſpoyle, Diſtracted in herſelfe, and onely fit To make a bankrout Poet heale his credit With matter for freſh Tragedies. Good heau'n! Is this to eaſe misfortune, or increaſe it? If Paſſion could whine out felicity, Or plenteous teares could drowne vnhappineſſe, I haue eyes too, and they containe their ſhowres, Nor would I ere be niggard of a Griefe. But teares being onely teares, an eaſie de Of childiſh eyes, and all the reſt of Griefe Commanding ſmiles, more then Compaſſion, I thanke my Genius I am reſolute To laugh at Fortune when ſhe is moſt angry▪ Such laughter may haue little mirth in it, And I ſhall haue more comfort in a teare. You may, good Fountaine, y, droppe on, to ſoe, If ſo much moyſture will reuiue thy cheekes Whilſt Ile be yong with laughter. I am he That feares a ſorrow, more then miſery. THis is the place, and this the time: good heau'n! What an odd place, and what an vncouth time? Had I beene hyr'd to murther Sforza here, Hell could not prompt more fit occaſion. I like nor it, nor him: but here he comes.