Gomersall, Robert · published 1633 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea typicality 0.77 · 507 words · other edition — not in the analysis
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 triumph's 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 Fountain, yes, drop on, to see, 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, & 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.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 197–261 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 4 of 33 in this edition
Length
507 words · 652 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T10 — England and France: war, embassy and peacecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.775 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T8 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
VVe would gladly have 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 VVere 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 VVee'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 grov'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 journey was but a report, Made him revoke Alphonso, his brave sonne VVho with an Army had indanger'd us: For the wise old man fearing, a deepe feare Might arme an enemy, else too weake for him, And make us hasten the French warre, gave o're His warre with us: but when he understands That all this quiet does not purchase peace, The coozen'd Prince seeks the sure peace of death, And leaves 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 reserv'd for sight Of warre and sorrow? ô discourteous heav'ns! Why have you dally'd with us to white hayres? Why kept till this time, must we perish now? O wherefore are we come so neere the grave And are not in it yet? yet pardon me Good heav'n, your acts are above question: Yet I may shed these teares for Italy; Slave of that world, which once, her valour slav'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 heav'n! Is this to ease misfortune, or increase it? If Passion could whine out felicity, Or plentious teares could drowne unhappinesse, I have eyes too, and they containe their showers, Nor would I ere be niggard of a Griefe. But teares being onely teares, an easie dew 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 have little mirth in it, And I shall have more comfort in a teare. You may, good Fountaine, yes, droppe on, to see, If so much moysture will revive thy cheekes Whilst Ile be yong with laughter. I am he That feares a sorrow, more then misery. THis is the place, & this the time: good heav'n! What an odd place, and what an uncouth 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.