Ford, John · published 1629 · first performed or written 1628 [licensed for stage, Nov 24] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · Globe unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
If it be not Parthenophill in long coats, 'tis a spirit in his likeness; answer I can get none from her; you shall see her. The young man in disguise upon my life, To steal out of the Land. I'll send him t'ee. Do, do my Rhetias. As there is by nature In every thing created contrariety: So likewise is there unity and league Between them in their kind; but Man, the abstract Of all perfection, which the workmanship Of Heaven hath modeled, in himself contains Passions of several quality, the music Of man's fair composition best accords, When 'tis in consort, not in single strains. My heart has been untuned these many months, Wanting her presence, in whose equal love True harmony consisted; living here We are heaven's bounty all, but Fortune's exercise. Minutes are numbered by the fall of Sands; As by an hourglass, the span of time Doth waste us to our graves, and we look on it. An age of pleasures revelled out, comes home At last, and ends in sorrow, but the life Weary of riot, numbers every Sand, Wailing in sighs, until the last drop down, So to conclude calamity in rest. What Echo yields a voice to my complaints? Can I be nowhere private? Let the substance As suddenly be hurried from your eyes, As the vain sound can pass your ear, If no impression of a troth vowed yours, Retain a constant memory. Stand up; 'tis not the figure stamped upon thy cheeks, The cozenage of thy beauty, grace, or tongue, Can draw from me a secret, that hath been The only jewel of my speechless thoughts. I am so worn away with fears and sorrows, So wintered with the tempests of affliction, That the bright Sun of your life-quickening presence Hath scarce one beam of force, to warm again That spring of cheerful comfort, which youth once Appareled in fresh looks. Cunning Impostor, Untruth hath made thee subtle in thy trade: If any neighbouring Greatness hath seduced A freeborn resolution, to attempt Some bolder act of treachery, by cutting My weary days off. Wherefore (Cruel-mercy) Hast thou assumed a shape, that would make treason A piety, guilt pardonable, bloodshed As holy as the sacrifice of peace? The Incense of my love-desires, are flamed Upon an Altar of more constant proof. Sir, O Sir, turn me back into the world, Command me to forget my name, my birth, My Father's sadness, and my death alive, If all remembrance of my Faith hath found A burial, without pity in your scorn. My scorn (disdainful Boy) shall soon unweave The web thy Art hath twisted: cast thy shape off, disrobe the mantle of a feigned Sex, And so I may be gentle; as thou art, There's witchcraft in thy language, in thy face, In thy demeanours; turn, turn from me (prithee) For my belief is armed else. Yet (fair subtlety) Before we part (for part we must) be true, Tell me thy Country. Cyprus. Ha: thy Father. Meleander. Hast a name? A name of misery, the unfortunate Eroclea.
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)
If it be not Parthenophill in long coates, Tis a spirit in his likenesse; answer I can get none from her; you shall see her. The young man in disguise vpon my life, To steale out of the Land. Ile send him t'ee. Doe, doe my Rhetias. As there is by nature In euery thing created contrarietie: So likewise is there vnity and league Betweene them in their kind; but Man, the abstract Of all perfection, which the workmanship Of Heauen hath model'd, in himselfe containes Passions of seuerall qualitie, the musicke Of mans faire composition best accords, When tis in consort, not in single straines. My heart has been vntun'd these many moneths, Wanting her presence, in whose equall loue True harmony consisted; liuing here We are Heau'ns bounty all, but Fortunes exercise. Minutes are numbred by the fall of Sands; As by an houre-glasse, the span of time Doth waste vs to our graues, and we looke on it. An age of pleasures reuel'd out, comes home At last, and ends in sorrow, but the life Weary of ryot, numbers euery Sand, Wayling in sighes, vntill the last drop downe, So to conclude calamity in rest. What Eccho yeelds a voyce to my complaints? Can I be no where priuate? Let the substance As suddenly be hurried from your eyes, As the vaine sound can passe your eare, If no impression of a troth vow'd yours, Retaine a constant memory. Stand vp; tis not the figure stampt vpon thy cheekes, The coozenage of thy beauty, grace, or tongue, Can draw from me a secret, that hath been The onely lewell of my speechlesse thoughts. I am so worne away with feares and sorrowes, So wintred with the tempests of affliction, That the bright Sunne of your life-quickning presence Hath scarce one beame of force, to warme againe That spring of chearefull comfort, which youth once Apparel'd in fresh lookes. Cunning Impostor, Vntruth hath made thee subtle in thy trade: If any neighbouring Greatnesse hath seduc'd A free-borne resolution, to attempt Some bolder act of treachery, by cutting My weary dayes off. Wherefore (Cruell-mercy) Hast thou assum'd a shape, that would make treason A piety, guilt pardonable, blood-shed As holy as the sacrifice of peace? The Incense of my loue-desires, are slam'd Vpon an Altar of more constant proofe. Sir, O Sir, turne me backe into the world, Command me to forget my name, my birth, My Fathers sadnesse, and my death aliue, If all remembrance of my Faith hath found A buriall, without pitie in your scorne. My scorne (disdainefull Boy) shall soone vnweaue The web thy Art hath twisted: cast thy shape off, Disroabe the mantle of a fained Sex, And so I may be gentle; as thou art, There's witch-craft in thy language, in thy face, In thy demeanors; turne, turne from me (prethee) For my beliefe is arm'd else. Yet (faire subtilty) Before we part (for part we must) be true, Tell me thy Countrey. Cyprus. Ha: thy Father. Meleander. Hast a name? A name of misery, the vnfortunate Eroclea.