Randolph, Thomas · published 1632 · first performed or written 1632 [Mar 20] (Annals) comedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T49 Wooing a mistress: suitors, go-betweens · 486 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T49: mistress, gentleman, love, lady, woman, pray, gentlewoman, hear, honest, way.
I could beat myself For speaking it, but 'twas to sound him, Madam. I said you had no neck: your chin and shoulders Were so good friends, they would ha' nothing part 'em: I vowed your breasts, for colour and proportion, Were like a writhled pair of o'er worn footballs: Your waste was slender, but th' ambitious buttock Climbs up so high about, who sees you naked Might swear you had been born with a farthingale. I am e'en frighted with thy strange description. I left, ashamed and weary: he goes on, There be more chops and wrinkles in her lips, Then on the earth in heat of dog-days: and her teeth Look like an old park-pale: She has a tongue Would make the deaf man bless his imperfection That frees him from the plague of so much noise: And such a breath (heaven shield us) as outvies The shambles and bear-garden for a sent. Was ever such a fury? For your shoulders, He thinks they were ordained to underprop Some beam o'th' Temple, and that's all the use Religion can make of you: Than your feet, For I am loath to give the full description, He vows they both are cloven. Had all malice Dwelled in one tongue, it could not scandal more. Is this the man adores me as his saint? And pays his morning orisons at my window Duly as at the Temple? Is there such hypocrisy In love's religion too? Are Venus doves But white dissemblers? Is this that Pamphilus That shakes and trembles at a frown of mine, More than at thunder? I must have more argument Of his apostasy, or suspect you false. Whose sword is this? 'Tis his. And this I tied About the hilt, and heard him swear to fight Under those colours, the most faithful soldier The fields of Mars or tents of Cupid knew. False men, resign your arms. Let us go forth Like bands of Amazons: for your valours be Not upright fortitude, but treachery. I urged him in a language of that boldness, As would have fired the chillest veins in Thebes, To stand in your defence, or else resign The fruitless steel he wore. He bid me take it. He had not so much of Knight errant in him, To vow himself champion to such a doxy. Then Love, I shoot thy arrows back again, Return 'em to thy quiver, guide thy arm To wound a breast will say the dart is welcome, And kiss the golden pile. I am possessed With a just anger, Pamphilus shall know My scorn as high as his. Bravely resolved. Madam, report not me to Pamphilus Author of this: for valour should not talk, And fortitude would lose itself in words. I need no other witness then his sword. TEchmessa? never did I understand The sweets of life till now. I will pronounce This for my birthday.
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 could beat my self For speaking it, but 'twas to sound him, Madam. I said you had no neck: your chin and shoulders Were so good friends, they would ha' nothing part 'um: I vow'd your breasts, for colour and proportion, Were like a writheld pair of o're worn footballs: Your waste was slender, but th' ambitious buttock Climbes up so high about, who sees you naked Might sweare you had been born with a vardingal. I am e'ne frighted with thy strange description. I left, asham'd and weary: he goes on, There be more chops and wrinckles in her lips, Then on the earth in heat of Dog-dayes: and her teeth Look like an old park-pale: She has a tongue Would make the deaf man blesse his imperfection That frees him from the plague of so much noise: And such a breath (heaven shield us) as out-vies The shambles and bear-garden for a sent. Was ever such a fury? For your shoulders, He thinks they were ordain'd to underprop Some beam o'th' Temple, and that's all the use Religion can make of you: Then your feet, For I am loth to give the full description, He vowes they both are cloven. Had all malice Dwelt in one tongue, it could not scandall more. Is this the man adores me as his saint? And payes his morning orisons at my window Duly as at the Temple? Is there such hypocrisie In loves religion too? Are Venus doves But white dissemblers? Is this that Pamphilus That shakes and trembles at a frown of mine, More then at thunder? I must have more argument Of his apostasie, or suspect you false. Whose sword is this? 'Tis his. And this I tied About the hilt, and heard him sweare to fight Under those colours, the most faithfull souldier The fields of Mars or tents of Cupid knew. False men, resigne your arms. Let us go forth Like bands of Amazons: for your valours be Not upright fortitude, but treacherie. I urg'd him in a language of that boldnesse, As would have fir'd the chillest veins in Thebes, To stand in your defence, or els resigne The fruitlesse steel he wore. He bid me take it. He had not so much of Knight errant in him, To vow himself champion to such a doxie. Then Love, I shoot thy arrows back again, Return 'um to thy quiver, guide thy arm To wound a breast will say the dart is welcome, And kisse the golden pile. I am possest With a just anger, Pamphilus shall know My scorn as high as his. Bravely resolv'd. Madam, report not me to Pamphilus Authour of this: for valour should not talk, And fortitude would loose it self in words. I need no other witnesse then his sword. TEchmessa? never did I understand The sweets of life till now. I will pronounce This for my birth-day.