Gomersall, Robert · published 1633 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea typicality 0.78 · 493 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.
O my brain! Must subtlety perish by subtlety? And our high wisdom find a Conqueror? Make an end Nature, the great work is done, Sforza is overreached— weak, childish rage: Is this to lessen, or make misery: Can passion lose us, or a courteous tear Wash off our fetters? if it can, pour eyes, Pour out wet comfort; if it can, refuse The curse of slumber, but it cannot, then Covet a slumber everlastingly, And be like me, imprisoned in your lids. Convey us quickly hence, kind friends, you know Sforza can never be a prisoner here, Convey us thither where we are no Prince. And must we woo our Ruin? never man Is a true wretch, but when he loseth all, And wants the sad Election of his fall. I'm lost in this confusion: one reports We have lost all, another instantly Kills all the French at once: thus every street Is filled with wondering people, some cry, Arm, Others run crying, to persuade a flight: All have an earnest business in the stir, But in the help not any. These are they That if an happy messenger should come With Sforza's victory, would pretend at least To be o'ercome with joy: the gorgeous walls Should shine with painted triumphs, & the French Should be again vanquished in pageant But if his fortune yield to the French force, What obloquy's will be enough for him? Disgrace will then be wit, and any brain Will venture on a Libel. 'Tis the use, The popular folly to admire events. And those low souls think that the sword is just, Proportioning the reason, by the end, Of the chief acts, of the best enterprise, And so by folly run into a crime. No matter for their wisdom, were they good: O why are such termed Innocents'? but friend, What is our aim? a flight our age denies, And whither should we fly, but to the grave? O I have so much people in me too. That I could wish thy company Good heavens! Am I escaped? may I stay safely here? My fear has left such near impressions, I scarce dare think that this is Liberty. Noble Maluezzo, is there any hope? As much as in despair: we are betrayed, Sforza is made a prisoner, all's lost, And Milan, without blows, is once more French, Now I remember what I dreamt last night, (If it be safe to call a vision, Dream,) I saw our Sforza in so pale a shape, That Envy never was described more wan, Who frighted me with this relation. STart not astonished mortal: let no fear Chill thee to my pale image, but fix here: Let thy once Prince be thy now spectacle, Whilst I the direst Tragedy shall tell That ever challenged wonder: briefly then I was betrayed, betrayed, and by those men By whom I conquered: 'tis an happy end To perish for, but never by a friend,
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1972–2039 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 31 of 33 in this edition
Length
493 words · 651 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T10 — England and France: war, embassy and peacecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.781 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T8 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O my braine! Must subtletie perish by subtlety? And our high wisedome finde a Conqueror? Make an end Nature, the great worke is done, Sforza is over-reacht—weake, childish rage: Is this to lessen, or make misery: Can passion loose us, or a courteous teare Wash off our fetters? if it can, poure eyes, Poure out wet comfort; if it can, refuse The curse of slumber, but it cannot, then Covet a slumber everlastingly, And be like me, imprison'd in your lids. Convey us quickly hence, kind friends, you know Sforza can never be a prisoner here, Convey us thither where we are no Prince. And must we wooe our Ruine? never man Is a true wretch, but when he loseth all, And wants the sad Election of his fall. I'Me lost in this confusion: one reports We have lost all, another instantly Kils all the French at once: thus ev'ry street Is filld with wondring people, some cry, Arme, Others runne crying, to perswade a flight: All have an earnest bus'nesse in the stirre, But in the helpe not any. These are they That if an happy messenger should come With Sforza's victory, would pretend at least To be orecome with joy: the gorgeous wals Should shine with painted triumphs, & the French Should be againe vanquisht in pageant But if his fortune yeeld to the French force, What obloquy's will be enough for him? Disgrace will then be wit, and any braine Will venture on a Libell. 'Tis the use, The popular folly to admire events. And those low souls thinke that the sword is just, Proportioning the reason, by the end, Of the chiefe acts, of the best enterprize, And so by folly runne into a crime. No matter for their wisedome, were they good: O why are such term'd Innocents? but friend, What is our ayme? a flight our age denyes, And whither should we flye, but to the grave? O I have so much people in me too. That I could wish thy company Good Heav'ns! Am I escap'd? may I stay safely here? My feare has left such neere impressions, I scarce dare thinke that this is Liberty. Noble Malvezzo, is there any hope? As much as in despaire: we are betraid, Sforza is made a prisoner, all's lost, And Millan, without blowes, is once more French, Now I remember what I dream't last night, (If it be safe to call a vision, Dreame,) I saw our Sforza in so pale a shape, That Envy never was describ'd more wan, Who frighted me with this relation. STart not astonisht mortall: let no feare Chill thee to my pale image, but fixe here: Let thy once Prince be thy now spectacle, Whilst I the direst Tragedy shall tell That ever challeng'd wonder: briefly then I was betraid, betraid, and by those men By whom I conquer'd: tis an happy end To perish for, but never by a friend,