Massinger, Philip · published 1632 · first performed or written 1621 [1621-1622; prologue, 1629/30(?)] (Annals) tragicomedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.76 · 525 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Which now proves The seat of his captivity not triumph. Heaven is still just. And yet that justice is To be with mercy tempered, which heavens Deputies Stand bound to minister. The injured Duchess By reason taught, as nature, could not with The reparation of her wrongs, but aim at A brave revenge, and my Lord feels too late That innocence will find friends. The great Gonzaga, The honour of his Order, I must praise Virtue, though in an enemy. He whose fights And conquests hold one number, rallying up Her scattered troops, before we could get time To victual, or to man the conquered City, Sat down before it, and presuming that 'Tis not to be relieved, admits no parley, Our flags of truce hung out in vain, nor will he Lend an ear to composition, but exacts With the rendering up the towne, the goods, and lines Of all within the walls, and of all Sexes To be at his discretion. Since injustice In your Duke, meets this correction, can you press us With any seeming argument of reason, In foolish pity to decline his dangers, To draw 'em on ourself? Shall we not be, Warned by his harms? The league proclaimed between us. Bound neither of us farther than to aid Each other, if by foreign force invaded, And so far in my honour I was tied. But since without our counsel, or allowance, He hath took arms, with his good leave, he must Excuse us, if we steer not on a rock We see, and may avoid. Let other Monarchs Contend to be made glorious by proud war, And with the blood of their poor subjects purchase Increase of Empire, and augment their cares In keeping that which was by wrongs extorted; Guilding unjust invasions with the trim Of glorious conquests; we that would be known The father of our people in our study, And vigilance for their safety, must not change Their ploughshares into swords, or force them from The secure shade of their own vines to be Scorched with the flames of war, or for our sport Expose their lives to ruin. Will you then In his extremity forsake your friend? No, but preserve ourself: Cannot the beams Of honour thaw your icy fears? Who's that? A kind of brother, Sir, howe'er your subject, Your father's Son, and one who blushes that You are not heir to his brave spirit, and vigour, As to his Kingdom. How's this? Sir, to be His living Chronicle, and to speak his praise Cannot deserve your anger. Where's your warrant For this presumption? Here, Sir, in my heart. Let Sycophants, that feed upon your favours, Style coldness in you caution, and prefer Your ease before your honour; and conclude To eat and sleep supinely, is the end Of humane blessings: I must tell you Sir, Virtue, if not in action, is a vice, And when we move not forward, we go backward; Nor is this peace (the nurse of drones, and cowards) Our health, but a disease. Well urged my Lord. Perfect what is so well begun. And bind, My Lord, your servant:
seed 43: T0 · seed 44: T0 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
VVhich now proves The seat of his captivity not triumph. Heaven is still just. And yet that justice is To be with mercy temper'd, which heau's Deputies Stand bound to minister. The injur'd Duchese By reason taught, as nature, could not with The reparation of her wrongs, but aime at A brave revenge, and my Lord feeles too late That innocence will finde friends. The great Gonzaga, The honor of his Order, I must praise Vertue, though in an enemy. Hee whose fights And conquests hold one number, rallying up Her scatter'd troopes, before wee could get time To victuall, or to man the conquer'd City, Sate downe before it, and presuming that 'Tis not to be releev'd, admits no parley, Our sags of truce hung out in vaine, nor will hee Lend an eare to composition, but exacts With the rendring up the owne, the goods, and lines Of all within the walls, and of all Sexes To be at his discretion. Since injustice In your Duke, meets this correction, can you presse us With any seeming argument of reason, In foolish pitty to decline his dangers, To draw 'em on our selfe? Shall we not be, Warn'd by his harmes? The league proclaim'd between us. Bound neither of us farther then to ayde Each other, if by forraigne force invaded, And so farre in my honour I was tied. But ince without our counsell, or allowance, He hath tooke armes, with his good leave, he must Excuse us, if wee steere not on a rocke We see, and may avoyd. Let other Monarchs Contend to be made glorious by proud warre, And with the blood of their poore subjects purchase Increase of Empire, and augment their cares In keeping that which was by wrongs extorted; Guilding unjust invasions with the trimne Of glorious conquests; wee that would be knowne The father of our people in our study, And vigilance for their safety, must not change Their plough-shares into swords, or force them from The secure shade of their owne vines to be Scorch'd with the flames of warre, or for our sport Expose their liues to ruine. Will you then In his extremity forsake your friend? No, but preserue our selfe: Cannot the beames Of honour thaw your icie feares? VVho's that? A kinde of brother, Sir, how e'er your subject, Your father's Sonne, and one who blushes that You are not heire to his brave spirit, and vigour, As to his Kingdome. How's this? Sir, to be His living Chronicle, and to speake his praise Cannot deserve your anger. VVhere's your warrant For this presumption? Hee, Sir, in my heart. Let Sycophats, that feed upon your favours, Stile coldnesse in you caution, and preferre Your ease before your honour; and conclude To eate and seepe supinely, is the end Of humane blessings: I must tell you Sir, Vertue, if not in action, is a vice, And when wee move not forward, we goe backeward; Nor is this peace (the nurse of drones, and cowards) Our health, but a disease. VVel urg'd my Lord. Perfit what is so well begunne. And binde, My Lord, your servant: