Gomersall, Robert · published 1633 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea · 482 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
And he (As I have seen some wavering amourist) Neglects his conquest for the easiness, For when 'twas certain Ferdinand was fled, Whilst they might justly yet fear his return, The French return, as if they meant to try Which would be soon weary of the haste, Who had the swifter pace to run away: That is no new act of new governors, Such stories are as ancient as the world. Till they do try what they can do, they think They may do all things, their first act is war (As if they meant rather to kill then reign) It matters not upon what ground: there is Pretence enough to quit a conqueror From the least show of injury: but then When they have felt the least of wars extremes They rave, they faint, they cross what they first did And are even weary of a victory. France made this certain truth, who in his brags Had sworn the fall of Mahomet: but now When he might hear the groans of Graecia Delivered by the echoes of their sea, To make them more, he thinks on a retreat, And chooseth home before a victory. It was a valley, where our Taro laves The root of Apennine, and a large plain Sphered with a row of swelling Earth, makes war A spacious Amphitheatre: where we Stayed for their coming; when mature advice That crownes most actions, strangely injured us For rashness would have stole a victory Which tedious consultation gave away, Success had smiled on our temerity Had we assaulted them upon the hills And added to the mountains with the French. But I am tedious: only our van fought, And 'twas the Frenchmens victory to resist: Both were o'ercome, both conquerors, for they Still kept the field, and we still kept the prey. O what is valour joined with Modesty! This conquers both our Fortune and your skill. Should you but write a story, and profess That pureness from all passion which y'ave shown, You would be credited, though 'twere your own. But what reward is't to be but believed? You shall be ever praised: what you have done Fears neither envy, nor oblivion: And for this act succession shall see Cajazzo as long-lived as Italy. I Wonder Malatesta still survives: Sure Sforza has forgot himself; my death Does but half clear him, and if the other live, He cannot look for a full innocence. It is not mercy, certainly: o, no, Mercy with him is folly: but 'tmay be He fears that had he killed us both at once Rumour would be too busy, and all mouths Would cry, that Chance had too much project in't. This is the place of Destiny, 'tis here Sforza does actuate his bloody arts, Mistaking privacy for innocence, And thinks he's good, because he is not seen. Here must I wait for a discovery.
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)
And he (As I have seene some wav'ring amorist) Neglects his conquest for the easinesse, For when twas certaine Ferdinand was fled, Whilst they might justly yet feare his returne, The French returne, as if they meant to try Which would be soonest weary of the hast, Who had the swifter pace to runne away: That is no new act of new governors, Such stories are as ancient as the world. Till they doe try what they can doe, they thinke They may doe all things, their first act is warre (As if they meant rather to kill then raigne) It matters not upon what ground: there is Pretence enough to quit a conqueror From the least shew of injury: but then When they have felt the least of warres extremes They rave, they faint, they crosse what they first did And are e'en weary of a victory. France made this certain truth, who in his brags Had sworne the fall of Mahomet: but now When he might heare the groanes of Graecia Deliver'd by the ecchoes of their sea, To make them more, he thinkes on a retreate, And chuseth home before a victory. It was a vally, where our Taro laves The root of Apennine, and a large plaine Spheard with a row of swelling Earth, makes warre A spatious Amphitheater: where we Stayd for their comming; when mature advice That crownes most actions, strangely injur'd us For rashnesse would have stole a victory Which tedious consultation gave away, Successe had smil'd on our temerity Had we assaulted them upon the hills And added to the mountaines with the French. But I am tedious: onely our vanne fought, And twas the Frenchmens victory to resist: Both were o'recome, both conquerors, for they Still kept the field, and we still kept the prey. O what is valour joyn'd with Modesty! This conquers both our Fortune and your skill. Should you but write a story, and professe That purenesse from al passion which y'aue shown, You would be credited, though twere your owne. But what reward is't to be but beleev'd? You shall be ever prays'd: what you have done Feares neither envy, nor oblivion: And for this act succession shall see Cajazzo as long-liv'd as Italy. I Wonder Malatesta still survives: Sure Sforza has forgot himselfe; my death Does but halfe cleare him, and if the other live, He cannot looke for a full innocence. It is not mercy, certainly: ô, no, Mercy with him is folly: but t'may be He feares that had he kild us both at once Rumor would be too busie, and all mouths Would cry, that Chance had too much project in't. This is the place of Destiny, 'tis here Sforza does actuate his bloody arts, Mistaking privacy for innocence, And thinkes hee's good, because he is not seene. Here must I wayte for a discovery.