Gomersall, Robert · published 1633 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea typicality 0.77 · 479 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.
Is this truth, Isabel? see, she's dumb: Have I then lived to have you seek my death? A Cousin-traitor? yet you shall not die, Nor know another prison than my Court, I love to see my Murderer: O heavens! Why, should I fear to kill her? yet 'tis reason: Who is no true Prince, can ne'er punish treason. And I shall take you at your word, dear Sf. IT cannot be, good Iulian, no more: I do not love these over-earnest dreams. The French invade us? when their jolly King With limber staves does only mock a war, Which like so many reeds against a stone, Punish their own attempt with their own ruin, Breaking themselves, not armours: when we know The Court is lost in Masks, reality Is so far fled since the last victory, That we may think the Court itself a mask. Eternal Music, revels without end Tyre the toomuch delighted soldier, Whose arms have now forgot their ancient use, His spirits only active in his heels, And canst thou think they'll dance to Italy? I've heard some tell that a great City once Was built by Music: would we might not find Our Country to be ruined by a dance: O fear the toying of an enemy. What cannot be believed, cannot be feared, You'll not believe, not you, till the French swords Dive to the bottom of your doubting heart, Till that th'unkinder news is brought so near, You cannot have the power to believe it. Can you believe this is a drum that beats? That this is the courageous General Can you believe, that he beleeus 'tis true? But who assists us in this dreadful time? As many as we have deserved: not one: Sforza has too much wisdom to have friends. And we have too much— I said nothing, did I? I did not speak against the State, I hope? Nor said that we had too much patience? Is Picinino then over come at last, Now I could change my sorrow for a smile. I must confess an anger though not grief: O how I love to fit me to mischance! And when that has no reason, them I'm mad. Why should our Milan blood stain the French swords Unto a glory? Sforza does offend, Denies the heavenly powers, or names them then, When he does dare them with bold perjury, Loads his black soul with murder of a man That could have made his execution, justice. This Sforza does, but what is this to me? Why shall this throat be cut for his? why thine? Why shall our Country's ruin fill his penance? The heavens do know no mean, but either waste Their benefits on dull ingratitude Or throw away their thunder, so it hit, So it not fail, they care not whom it strike, Whether the guilty, or the innocent.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1389–1448 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 22 of 33 in this edition
Length
479 words · 620 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T10 — England and France: war, embassy and peacecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.768 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
Is this truth, Isabella? see, shee's dumbe: Have I then liv'd to have you seeke my death? A Cosin-Traitor? yet you shall not dy, Nor know another prison then my Court, I love to see my Murtherer: O heav'ns! Why, should I feare to kill her? yet tis reason: Who is no true Prince, can ne'er punish treason. And I shall take you at your word, deare Sf. IT cannot be, good Iulian, no more: I doe not love these over-earnest dreames. The French invade us? when their jolly King With limber staves does onely mocke a warre, VVhich like so many reeds against a stone, Punish their owne attempt with their owne ruine, Breaking themselves, not armors: when we know The Court is lost in Maskes, reality Is so farre fled since the last victory, That we may thinke the Court it selfe a maske. Aeternall Musicke, revells without end Tire the too-much delighted souldier, Whose armes have now forgot their ancient use, His spirits onely active in his heeles, And canst thou thinke theyle dance to Italy? I've heard some tell that a great City once Was built by Musicke: would we might not find Our Country to be ruin'd by a dance: O feare the toying of an enemy. What cannot be beleev'd, cannot be fear'd, Youle not beleeve, not you, till the French swords Dive to the bottome of your doubting heart, Till that th'unkinder newes is brought so neere, You cannot have the power to beleeve it. Can you beleeve this is a drum that beates? That this is the couragious Generall Can you beleeve, that he beleevs 'tis true? But who assists us in this dreadfull time? As many as we have deserv'd: not one: Sforza has too much wisedome to have friends. And we have too much—I said nothing, did I? I did not speake against the State, I hope? Nor said that we had too much patience? Is Picinino then ore come at last, Now I could change my sorrow for a smile. I must confesse an anger though not griefe: O how I love to fit me to mischance! And whē that has no reason, thē I'me mad. Why should our Millan blood staine the French swords Vnto a glory? Sforza does offend, Deny's the heav'nly pow'rs, or names them then, When he does dare them with bold perjury, Loades his blacke soule with murther of a man That could have made his execution, justice. This Sforza does, but what is this to me? Why shall this throat be cut for his? why thine? Why shall our Countryes ruine fill his penance? The heav'ns doe know no meane, but either wast Their benefits on dull ingratitude Or throw away their thunder, so it hit, So it not faile, they care not whom it strike, Whether the guilty, or the innocent.