Gomersall, Robert · published 1633 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T14 Royal love, favour and dynastic relation · 452 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
But why is this employment? why these Arms? When all but Naples are our friends, and they Not able now to show themselves our foes, Engaged, and almost lost in the French war. Tricks, Iuliano, Statists call them Arts. Not to be fathomed by a vulgar reach: But though I want the villainy to know, Yet I have so much spleen to laugh at them, And take a comfort in this plainer sense, No subtlety can cousin Providence. HOw rests the Prince? O my good Lord, he rests, But 'tis a quiet, such as the Seas have, When that the winds have spent their violence, And out of impotence bestow a calm: 'Tis more a death, than slumber, you may see His senses rather weary, then at rest. Are then his fits so raging? Nothing else, Should he but wake, you'd think two Armies met, And strove together for the loudest shout. Disease has spread herself o'er all his parts, And only spared his tongue, as if some star Not knowing otherwise to clear itself From imputation of tyranny, For such exact plaguing of Innocence Had left him that to curse withal, that so To all that heard his fury, he might seem To be thus tortured for his Blasphemy. Water, some water. Now the fit begins: Some of my slaves run, and exhaust the Po, Charge him no more to vent his idle streams Into the glutted Main, but rather pour All his moist mouths on me: d'ye stare, begun, Use not your eyes at all, unless to weep: And that, not tears of sorrow, but of help, Such as may cool me. Patience, sweet Prince, Add not unto the fire of your disease, The heat of passion, What red thing is this? Ha, Isabel, tell me. 'Tis your uncle The noble Prince, Ascanio. 'Tis false; He is nor Prince, nor noble: hark you friends, He talks of Passion, and of Patience, Let him discourse of Aetna, or Vesuvius, Or of a greater heat than I do feel, And I will answer him: Patience to me? Go bid rough seas be patient. He grows worse, And opposition does inflame him more: Me thinkes I see his eyelids faintly strive Against Death's closing. O! my joints are fire. Why does not heaven shed Cataracts, and lower Once to my comfort? are they hot as I, Have they no moisture, for a Suppliant? Then, though hot heaven oppose, when once my breath Hath left this corpse, I'll have a cold by death. Mor, Herd you that groan my Lord— o he is dead; Crack than ye tardy heart strings, quickly crack, And give me leave to overtake the flight Of my dead husband.
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)
But why is this imployment? why these Armes? When all but Naples are our friends, and they Not able now to shew themselves our foes, Ingag'd, and almost lost in the French warre. Trickes, Iuliano, Statists call them Arts. Not to be fadom'd by a vulgar reach: But though I want the villany to know, Yet I have so much spleene to laugh at them, And take a comfort in this plainer sense, No subtilty can coozen Providence. HOw rests the Prince? O my good Lord, he rests, But 'tis a quiet, such as the Seas have, When that the winds have spent their violence, And out of impotence bestow a calme: 'Tis more a death, then slumber, you may see His senses rather weary, then at rest. Are then his fits so raging? Nothing else, Should he but wake, youd think two Armies met, And strove together for the loudest shout. Disease has spred herselfe ore all his parts, And onely spar'd his tongue, as if some starre Not knowing otherwise to cleare itselfe From imputation of tyranny, For such exact plaguing of Innocence Had left him that to curse withall, that so To all that heard his fury, he might seeme To be thus tortur'd for his Blasphemy. Water, some water. Now the fit beginnes: Some of my slaves runne, and exhaust the Po, Charge him no more to vent his idle streames Into the glutted Maine, but rather poure All his moyst mouths on me: d'ye stare, begone, Vse not your eyes at all, unlesse to weepe: And that, not teares of sorrow, but of helpe, Such as may coole me. Patience, sweet Prince, Adde not unto the fire of your disease, The heat of passion, What red thing is this? Ha, Isabella, tell me. 'Tis your vncle The noble Prince, Ascanio. 'Tis false; He is nor Prince, nor noble: hearke you friends, He talkes of Passion, and of Patience, Let him discourse of Aetna, or Vesuvius, Or of a greater heat then I doe feele, And I will answer him: Patience to me? Goe bid rough seas be patient. He growes worse, And opposition does inflame him more: Me thinkes I see his eye-lids faintly strive Against Deaths closing. O! my joynts are fire. Why does not heav'n shed Cataracts, and lowre Once to my comfort? are they hot as I, Have they no moysture, for a Suppliant? Thē, though hot heav'n oppose, whē once my breath Hath left this corps, Ile have a cold by death. Mor, Heard you that grone my Lord—ô he is dead; Cracke then ye tardy heart strings, quickly cracke, And give me leave to over-take the flight Of my dead husband.