Selected quad for the lemma: death_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
death_n	die_v	live_v	soul_n	15,929	5	5.3820	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A01522	The steele glas A satyre co[m]piled by George Gascoigne Esquire. Togither with The complainte of Phylomene. An elegie deuised by the same author.	Gascoigne, George, 1542?-1577.	1576 (1576)	STC 11645; ESTC S102876	34,222	124

I more withstande So many deepe desires But this quoth he remember al Your father you requires And thee my sonne of Thrace I constantly coniure By faith by kin by men by gods And al that seemeth sure That father like thou fende My daughter deare from scathe And since I counte al leasure long Returne hir to me rathe And thou my Phylomene Quoth he come soone againe Thy sisters absence puts thy syre To too much priuie paine Herewith he kist hir cheeke And sent a second kisse For Prognes part and bathde with teares His daughter doth he blisse And tooke the Thracyans hand For token of his truth VVho rather laught his teares to scorn Than wept with him for ruth The sayles are fully spredde And winds did serue at will And forth this traitour king conueies His praie in prison still Ne could the Barbrous bloud Conceale his filthy fyre Hey Victorie quoth he my shippe Is fraught with my desire VVherewith he fixt his eyes Vppon hir fearefull face And stil behelde hir gestures all And all hir gleames of grace Ne could he loke a side But like the cruel catte VVhich gloating casteth many a glāc Vpon the selly ratte ¶ VVhy hold I long discourse They now are come on lande And forth of ship the feareful wenche He leadeth by the hande Vnto a selly shrowde A sheepecote closely builte Amid the woodds where many a lāb Their guiltlesse bloud had spilte There like a lambe she stoode And askte with trimbling voice VVhere Progne was whose only sight Might make hir to reioyce VVherewith this caytife king His lust in lewdnesse lapt And with his filthy fraude ful fast This simple mayde entrapt And forth he floong the raines Vnbridling blinde desire And ment of hir chast minde to make A fewel for his fire And al alone alone VVith force he hir supprest And made hir yelde the wicked weede VVhose flowre he liked best What could the virgine doe She could not runne away Whose forward feete his harmfull hands With furious force did stay Ahlas what should she fight Fewe women win by fight Hir weapōs were but weake god knows And he was much of might It booted not to crie Since helpe was none at hande And stil before hir feareful face Hir cruel foe did stande And yet she weping cride Vppon hir sisters name Hir fathers and hir brothers oh Whose facte did foyle hir fame And on the Gods she calde For helpe in hir distresse But al in vaine he wrought his wil Whose lust was not the lesse ¶ The filthie fact once done He gaue hir leaue to greete And there she sat much like a birde New scapte from falcons feete VVhose blood embrues hir selfe And sitts in sorie plight Ne dare she proine hir plumes again But feares a second flight At last when hart came home Discheveld as she sate VVith hands vphelde she tried hir tongue To wreake hir woful fate O Barbrous Greeke quoth she By Barbrous deeds disgrast Coulde no kinde coale nor pitties sparke Within thy brest be plaste Could not my fathers hests Nor my most ruthful teares My maydenhoode nor thine owne yoke Affright thy minde with feares Could not my sisters loue Once quench thy filthy lust Thou foilst vs al and eke thy selfe We griev'd and thou vniust By thee I haue defilde My dearest sisters bedde By thee I compt the life but lost Which too too long I ledde By thee thou Bigamus Our fathers griefe must growe Who daughters twain two too much Vppon thee did bestowe But since my faulte thy facte My fathers iust offence My sisters wrong with my reproche I cannot so dispence If any Gods be good If right in heauen do raigne If right or wrong may make reuenge Thou shalt be paide againe And wicked doe thy wurst Thou canst no more but kil And oh that death before this gilte Had ouercome my will. Then might my soule beneath Haue triumpht yet and saide That though I died discontent I livde and dide a mayde ¶ Herewith hir swelling sobbes Did tie hir tong from talke Whiles yet the Thraciā tyrant there To heare these words did walke And skornefully he cast At hir a frowning glaunce VVhich made the mayde tostriue for spech And stertling from hir traunce ¶ I wil reuenge quoth she For here I shake off shame And wil my selfe bewray this facte Therby to foile thy fame A midde the thickest throngs If I haue leaue to go I will pronounce this bloudie deede And blotte thine honor so If I in deserts dwel The woods my words shal heare The holts the hilles the craggie rocks Shall witnesse with me beare I wil so fil the ayre With noyse of this thine acte That gods and men in heauen and earth Shal note thy naughtie facte ¶ These words amazde the king Conscience with choller straue But rage so rackte his restles thought That now he gan to raue And from his sheath a knife Ful despratly he drawes VVherwith he cut the guiltlesse tong Out of hir tender iawes The tong that rubde his gall The tong that tolde but truthe The tong that movde him to be mad And should haue moued ruth And from his hand with spight This trustie tongue he cast VVhose roote and it to wreake this wrōg Did wagge yet wondrous fast So stirres the serpents taile VVhen it is cut in twaine And so it seemes that weakest willes By words would ease their paine I blush to tell this tale But sure best books say this That yet the butcher did not blush Hir bloudy mouth to kisse And ofte hir bulke embrast And ofter quencht the fire VVhich kindled had the furnace first Within his soule desire Not herewithal content To Progne home he came VVho askt him streight of Philomene He fayning griefe for game Brust out in bitter teares And sayde the dame was dead And falsly tolde what wery life Hir father for hir ledde The Thracian Queene cast off Hir gold and gorgeous weede And drest in dole bewailde hir death VVhom she thought dead in deede A sepulchre she builds But for a liuing corse And praide the gods on sisters soule To take a iust remorse And offred sacrifice To all the powers aboue Ah traiterous Thracian Tereus This was true force of loue ¶ The heauens had whirld aboute Twelue yeeres in order due And twelue times euery flowre and plant Their liueries did renew VVhiles Philomene full close In shepcote stil was clapt Enforst to bide by stonie walles VVhich fast in hold hir hapt And as those walles forbadde Hir feete by flight to scape So was hir tong by knife restrainde For to reueale this rape No remedie remaynde But onely womans witte VVhich sodainly in queintest chance Can best it selfe acquit And Miserie amongst Tenne thousand mischieues moe Learnes pollicie in practises As proofe makes men to knowe VVith curious needle worke A garment gan she make Wherin she wrote what bale she bode And al for bewties sake This garment gan she giue To

eche in his degree That God vouchsafe to graunt them al his grace Where should I now beginne to bidde my beades Or who shal first be put in common place My wittes be wearie and my eyes are dymme I cannot see who best deserues the roome Stād forth good Peerce thou plowmā by thyname Yet so the Sayler saith I do him wrong That one contends his paines are without peare That other saith that none be like to his In dede they labour both exceedingly But since I see no shipman that can liue Without the plough and yet I many see Which liue by lande that neuer sawe the seas Therfore I say stand forth Peerce plowman first Thou winst the roome by verie worthinesse Behold him priests though he stink of sweat Disdaine him not for shal I tel you what Such clime to heauen before the shauen crownes But how forsooth with true humilytie Not that they hoord their grain when it is cheape Nor that they kill the calfe to haue the milke Nor that they set debate betwene their lords By earing vp the balks that part their bounds Nor for because they can both crowche creep The guilefulst men that euer God yet made VVhen as they meane most mischiefe and deceite Nor that they can crie out on landelordes lowde And say they racke their rents an ace to high VVhen they themselues do sel their landlords lābe For greater price then ewe was wont be worth I see you Peerce my glasse was lately scowrde But for they feed with frutes of their gret paines Both King and Knight and priests in cloyster pent Therefore I say that sooner some of them Shal scale the walles which leade vs vp to heauen Than cornfed beasts whose bellie is their God Although they preach of more perfection And yet my priests pray you to God for Peerce As Peerce can pinch it out for him and you And if you haue a Paternoster spare Then shal you pray for Saylers God them send More mind of him when as they come to lande For towarde shipwracke many men can pray That they once learne to speake without a lye And meane good faith without blaspheming othes That they forget to steale from euery fraight And for to forge false cockets free to passe That māners make them giue their betters place And vse good words though deeds be nothing gay But here me thinks my priests begin to frowne And say that thus they shal be ouerchargde To pray for al which seme to do amisse And one I heare more saucie than the rest VVhich asketh me when shal our prayers end I tel thee priest when shoomakers make shoes That are wel sowed with neuer a stitch amisse And vse no crafte in vttring of the same VVhen Taylours steale no stuffe from gentlemen VVhen Tanners are with Corriers wel agreede And both so dresse their hydes that we go dry when Cutlers leaue to sel olde rustie blades And hide no crackes with soder nor deceit when tinkers make no more holes thā they founde when thatchers thinke their wages worth their worke when colliers put no dust into their sacks when maltemen make vs drinke no firmentie when Dauie Diker diggs and dallies not when smithes shoo horses as they would he shod when millers toll not with a golden thumbe whē bakers make not barme beare price of wheat when brewers put no bagage in their beere when butchers blowe not ouer al their fleshe when horsecorsers beguile no friends with Iades when weauers weight is found in huswiues web But why dwel I so long among these lowts When mercers make more bones to swere and lye VVhen vintners mix no water with their wine VVhen printers passe none errours in their bookes VVhen hatters vse to bye none olde cast robes VVhē goldsmithes get no gains by sodred crownes When vpholsters sel fethers without dust When pewterers infect no Tin with leade When drapers draw no gaines by giuing day When perchmentiers put in no ferret Silke When Surgeons heale al wounds without delay Tush these are toys but yet my glas sheweth al. When purveyours prouide not for themselues VVhen Takers take no brybes nor vse no brags When customers conceale no covine vsde VVhen Seachers see al corners in a shippe And spie no pens by any sight they see VVhen shriues do serue al processe as they ought VVhen baylifes strain none other thing but strays VVhen auditours their counters cannot change VVhen proude surueyours take no parting pens VVhen Siluer sticks not on the Tellers fingers And when receiuers pay as they receiue VVhen al these folke haue quite forgotten fraude Againe my priests a little by your leaue VVhen Sicophants can finde no place in courte But are espied for Ecchoes as they are When roysters ruffle not aboue their rule Nor colour crafte by swearing precious coles When Fencers fees are like to apes rewards A peece of breade and therwithal a bobbe VVhen Lays liues not like a ladies peare Nor vseth art in dying of hir heare When al these things are ordred as they ought And see themselues within my glasse of steele Euen then my priests may you make holyday And pray no more but ordinarie prayers And yet therin I pray you my good priests Pray stil for me and for my Glasse of steele That it nor I do any minde offend Bycause we shew all colours in their kinde And pray for me that since my hap is such To see men so I may perceiue myselfe O worthy words to ende my worthlesse verse Pray for me Priests I pray you pray for me FINIS Tam Marti quàm Mercurio EPILOGVS ALas my lord my hast was al to hote I shut my glasse before you gasde your fill And at a glimse my seely selfe haue spied A stranger trowpe than any yet were sene Beholde my lorde what monsters muster here With Angels face and harmefull helish harts With smyling lookes and depe deceitful thoughts With tender skinnes and stony cruel mindes With stealing steppes yet forward feete to fraude Behold behold they neuer stande content With God with kinde with any helpe of Arte But curle their locks with bodkins with braids But dye their heare with sundry subtill sleights But paint and slicke til fayrest face be foule But bumbast bolster frisle and perfume They marre with muske the balme which nature made And dig for death in dellicatest dishes The yonger sorte come pyping on apace In whistles made offine enticing wood Til they haue caught the birds for whom they birded The elder sorte go stately stalking on And on their backs they beare both land and fee Castles and Towres revenewes and receits Lordships and manours fines yea fermes and al. What should these be speake you my louely lord They be not men for why they haue no beards They be no boyes which weare such side lōg gowns They be no Gods for al their gallant glosse They be no diuels I trow which seme so saintish What be they women masking