Davenant, William · published 1629 · first performed or written 1628 [1626-1629] (Annals) tragedy · Unacted unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
My Lord, the King is kind! Our memories Were frail, should we forget what hath so much Pertained unto our knowledge. I'm so fond o'er my Religion, I dare not taste Ingratitude: yet give me leave to say, You may mistake his love unto the Queen. The dry Tartar, who yokes his females neck With rusty Iron, not with carcanets Of threaded Pearl; whom he preserves for physic More than increase; will the first night of their Conjunction, feast her in's embroidered tent; Call her Sovereign; and like some amorous wind, Sport with her hair. But my Nuptial the King did celebrate In Golgotha, where Skulls, and dusty bones Inhabit. You're skilful in the deeds that appertain To strength and fury; but they that aim At victory in Court, must practise smooth And subtle Arts. Wise Favourites do walk I'th' dark, and use false lights. Nay, oft disguise Their breadth and stature; seem lesser than they are: For know, the slender Worm, or nimble Grig, May wriggle down into th' oblique, and low Descent o'th' narrow hole; whilst th'o'ergrown Snake Peeps at the brim, but ne'er can view the bottom. Think on thy Country, Paradine! Is there In Story no mention of some great Soul, That did his Country prize above his own Mortality, and died to gain his Nation Freedom? The Noble Brutus for his country's health, Made Cesar bleed; Cassius was heroic too, And had in war loud Fame, which he increased By mingling in this Act.— 'tis wrought with skill, And apt leisure. His thoughts grow numerous, And engender horrid shapes; such as fright His fancy. Paradine, good night! Hymen and your Bride, will blame your tardy Service. Sweet Lord, a thousand times good night. False unto me! when Thunder wakes the dead: When the Sky looks swarthy: the clouds like ink In water poured: when the Earth seems to stand As in a gloomy shade. When the wind blows Till it grows hoarse: till it convert And sprinkle Seas even to a Dew; then I Shall try the King, and fathom his wide Soul. If he start, complain of his mortality, Kneel oft; and pray aloud, as Heaven Were deaf: if thus, I will conclude him false. For horrid storms that tyrant's waking keep, Do rock the noble Conscience safe asleep. I knew your Excellence did visit me For mirth and laughter. So early up? Your Lord is temperate. I should like their tempers better, if she Were down, and her Lord up. Fie, Thesina, your tongue's unruly. The morning might have shown me too for mirth, Had not the false King made the night so sad. Black fancy fly! She moves as she were sick, this skirmish has Much weakened her. Dost thou call't a skirmish? ay, Madam, a French skirmish; where th' onset Is hot and fiery, but the retreat cold and tame. Madam, the King? Hah! He greets your Excellence in a smooth phrase, And begs, you will permit his early visit.
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)
My Lord, the King is kinde! Our memories Were fraile, ſhould we forget what hath ſo much Pertain'd vnto our knowledge. I'm ſo fond O're my Religion, I dare not taſte Ingratitude: yet giue me leaue to ſay, You may miſtake his loue vnto the Queene. The dry Tartar, who yoakes his females neck With ruſty Yron, not with Carckanets Of threaded Pearle; whom he preſerues for phyſick More then increaſe; will the firſt night of their Coniunction, feaſt her in's imbroader'd tent; Call her Soueraigne; and like ſome amorous winde, Sport with her haire. But my Nuptiall the King did celebrate In Golgotha, where Skulls, and duſty bones Inhabit. Y'are skilfull in the deeds that appertaine To ſtrength and fury; but they that aime At victory in Court, muſt practiſe ſmooth And ſubtill Arts. Wiſe Fauourites doe walke I'th darke, and vſe falſe lights. Nay, oft diſguize Their breadth and ſtature; ſeeme leſſer then they are: For know, the ſlender Worme, or nimble Grig, May wriggle downe into th' oblique, and low Deſcent o'th narrow hole; whilſt th'oregrowne Snake Peepes at the brimme, but ne're can view the bottome. Thinke on thy Country, Paradine! Is there In Story no mention of ſome great Soule, That did his Country prize aboue his owne Mortalitie, and dy'd to gaine his Nation Freedome? The Noble Brutus for his Countreys health, Made Ceſar bleed; Caſsius was heroique too, And had in warre loud Fame, which he increas'd By mingling in this Act.— Tis wrought with skill, And apt leaſure. His thoughts grow numerous, And ingender horrid ſhapes; ſuch as fright His fancy. Paradine, good night! Hymen and your Bride, will blame your tardy Seruice. Sweet Lord, a thouſand times good night. Falſe vnto me! when Thunder wakes the dead: When the Skie looks ſwarthy: the clouds like inke In water powr'd: when the Earth ſeemes to ſtand As in a gloomy ſhade. When the winde blowes Till it growes hoarce: till it conuert And ſprinkle Seas euen to a Dew; then I Shall try the King, and fathome his wide Soule. If he ſtart, complaine of his mortalitie, Kneele oft; and pray aloud, as Heauen Were deafe: if thus, I will conclude him falſe. For horrid ſtormes that Tyrants waking keepe, Doe rock the noble Conſcience ſafe aſleepe. I knew your Excellence did viſit me For mirth and laughter. So early vp? Your Lord is temperate. I ſhould like their tempers better, if ſhe Were downe, and her Lord vp. Fye, Theſina, your tongue's vnruly. The morning might haue ſhewne me too for mirth, Had not the falſe King made the night ſo ſad. Black fancy flye! She moues as ſhe were ſicke, this skirmiſh has Much weakened her. Doſt thou call't a skirmiſh? I, Madam, a French skirmiſh; where th' onſet Is hot and fiery, but the retreat cold and tame. Madam, the King? Hah! He greets your Excellence in a ſmooth phraſe, And begs, you will permit his early viſit.