Randolph, Thomas · published 1632 · first performed or written 1632 [Mar 20] (Annals) comedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T46 Swords, quarrels and valour · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T46: rapier, sword, fight, gentlemen, gentleman, kicked, kill, dagger, signor, valour.
I'll undertake he shall resign his weapon, And forswear steel in any thing but knives, Rather than venture one small scratch to salve Your wounded honour: or to prove you chaste, Encounter with a pin. I am no common mistress, nor have need To entertain a multitude of champions To draw in my defence.— Yet had he loved me, He could not hear me injured with such patience. Ballio, one trial more: bring me his sword Rather resigned than drawn in my defence, And I shall rest confirmed. Here's a fine business. What shall I do? go to a cutler's shop, And buy a sword like that. O 'twill not do. Will you do this? It is resolved. I will One way or other. Wit, at a dead lift help me. MAdam, the wretched Pamphilus! What of him? Is through your cruelty and suspicion dead. That news revives me. Haste, Techmessa then: What dost thou here when Pamphilus is dead? Cast off this robe of clay my soul, and fly To overtake him, bear him company To the Elysian groves: the journey thither Is dark and melancholy: do not suffer him To go alone. Madam, I joy to see With how much sorrow you receive his death. I will restore you comfort: Pamphilus lives. If Pamphilus live, than Ballio's dead again. Do you put tricks upon me? we shall have you On a little counterfeit sorrow, and a few drops Of woman's tears, go and persuade your master I am deeply in love with him. If you be not, You ought in justice. I'll give thee a new feather And tell me what were those three ladies' names Your master entertained last night. Three Ladies! You make it strange now. Madam, by all oaths My master bears a love so firmly constant To you, and only you; he talks, thinks, dreams Of nothing but Techmessa. When he hears The sound of your blessed name, he turns Chamaeleon, And lives on that sweet air. Here he has sent me With letters to you; which I should deliver I know not, nor himself: for first he writes, And when that letter likes him not, begins A second style, and so a third and fourth, And thus proceeds, then reads 'em over all, And knows not which to send: perchance tears all. The paper was not fair enough to kiss So white a hand, that letter was too big, A line uneven, all excuse prevailed, Language, or phrase, or word, or syllable, That he thought harsh and rough. I have heard him wish Above all blessings heaven can bestow (So strange a fancy has affection taught him) That he might have a quill from Cupid's wing Dipped in the milk of Venus, to record Your praises and his love. I have brought you here Whole packets of affection. Blessed occasion! Here is a conquest purchased without blood. Though strength and valour fail us, yet we see There may a field be won by policy.
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)
I'le undertake he shall resigne his weapon, And forsweare steel in any thing but knives, Rather then venture one small scratch to salve Your wounded honour: or to prove you chaste, Encounter with a pin. I am no common mistresse, nor have need To entertain a multitude of champions To draw in my defence. —Yet had he lov'd me, He could not heare me injur'd with such patience. Ballio, one triall more: bring me his sword Rather resign'd then drawn in my defence, And I shall rest confirm'd. Here's a fine businesse. What shall I do? go to a cutlers shop, And buy a sword like that. O 'twill not do. Will you do this? It is resolv'd. I will One way or other. Wit, at a dead lift help me. MAdam, the wretched Pamphilus! What of him? Is through your cruelty and suspicion dead. That news revives me. Haste, Techmessa then: What dost thou here when Pamphilus is dead? Cast off this robe of clay my soul, and flie To overtake him, bear him company To the Elysian groves: the journey thither Is dark and melancholy: do not suffer him To go alone. Madam, I joy to see With how much sorrow you receive his death. I will restore you comfort: Pamphilus lives. If Pamphilus live, then Ballio's dead again. Do you put tricks upon me? we shall have you On a little counterfeit sorrow, and a few drops Of womans teares, go and perswade your master I am deeply in love with him. If you be not, You ought in justice. I'le give thee a new feather And tell me what were those three Ladies names Your master entertain'd last night. Three Ladies! You make it strange now. Madam, by all oaths My master bears a love so firmly constant To you, and onely you; he talks, thinks, dreams Of nothing but Techmessa. When he heares The sound of your blest name, he turns Chamaeleon, And lives on that sweet aire. Here he has sent me With letters to you; which I should deliver I know not, nor himself: for first he writes, And when that letter likes him not, begins A second stile, and so a third and fourth, And thus proceeds, then reades 'um over all, And knows not which to send: perchance tears all. The paper was not fair enough to kisse So white a hand, that letter was too big, A line uneven, all excuse prevail'd, Language, or phrase, or word, or syllable, That he thought harsh and rough. I have heard him wish Above all blessings heaven can bestow (So strange a fancie has affection taught him) That he might have a quill from Cupids wing Dipt in the milk of Venus, to record Your praises and his love. I have brought you here Whole packets of affection. Blessed occasion! Here is a conquest purchas'd without bloud. Though strength and valour fail us, yet we see There may a field be won by policie.