Ford, John · published 1633 · first performed or written 1632 [1632-1633] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 475 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Take this, take all. Excellent, excellent! the pangs of death are music Forgive me, my good Genius, I had thought (to this. I matched a woman, but I find she is A devil, worser than the worst in hell. Nay, nay, since we are in, e'en come, say on, I mark you to a syllable: you say, The fault was his, not yours: why, virtuous Mistress, Can you imagine you have so much art Which may persuade me, you and your close marksman Did not a little traffic in my right? Look what I said, 'tis true. For know it now, I must confess I missed no means, no time, To win him to my bosom; but so much, So holily, with such Religion, He kept the laws of friendship, that my suit Was held but, in comparison, a jest; Nor did I ofter urge the violence Of my affection, but as oft he urged The sacred vows of faith twixt friend and friend: Yet be assured, my Lord, if ever language Of cunning servile flatteries, entreaties, Or what in me is, could procure his love, I would not blush to speak it. Such another As thou art, (miserable Creature) would Sink the whole sex of women: yet confess What witchcraft used the wretch to charm the arc Of the once spotless temple of thy mind? For without witchcraft it could ne'er be done. Phew— and you be in these tunes, Sir, I'll leave: You know the best, and worst, and all. Nay then Thou temptest me to thy ruin; come black angel, Fair devil, in thy prayers reckon up The sum, in gross, of all thy vained follies: There, amongst other, weep in tears of blood, For one above the rest; Adultery, Adultery, Biancha; such a guilt, As were the sluices of thine eyes let up, Tears cannot wash it off: 'tis not the tide Of trivial wantonness from youth to youth, But thy abusing of thy lawful bed, Thy husband's bed; his, in whose breast thou sleep'st: His, that did prize thee more than all the trash Which hoarding worldlings make an Idol of: When thou shalt find the Catalogue enrolled Of thy misdeeds, there shall be writ, in Text, Thy bastarding, the issues of a Prince. Now turn thine eyes into thy hovering soul, And do not hope for life: would Angels sing A requiem at my hearse? but to dispense With my Revenge on thee, 'twere all in vain: Prepare to die. ay, do; and to the point Of thy sharp sword, with open breast I'll run Half way thus naked: do not shrink, Caraffa, This daunts not me: but in the latter act. Of thy Revenge, 'tis all the suit I ask At my last gasp, to spare thy noble friend; For life to me, without him, were a death.
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)
Take this, take all. Excellent, excellent! the pangs of death are musick Forgiue me, my good Genius, I had thought (to this. I matcht a woman, but I find she is A diuell, worser then the worst in hell. Nay, nay, since we are in, ee'ne come, say on, I marke you to a sillable: you say, The fault was his, not yours: why, vertuous Mistresse, Can you imagine you haue so much art Which may perswade me, you and your close marke-man Did not a little trafficke in my right? Looke what I said, 'tis true. For know it now, I must confesse I mist no meanes, no time, To winne him to my bosome; but so much, So holily, with such Religion, He kept the lawes of friendship, that my sute Was held but, in comparison, a iest; Nor did I ofter vrge the violence Of my aflection, but as oft he vrg'd The sacred vowes of faith 'twixt friend and friend: Yet be assured, my Lord, if euer language Of cunning seruile flatteries, intreaties, Or what in me is, could procure his loue, I would not blush to speake it. Such another As thou art, (miserable Creature) would Sinke the whole sexe of women: yet confesse What witch-craft vs'd the wretch to charme the ar Of the once spotlesse temple of thy mind? For without witch-craft it could ne're be done. Phew—and you be in these tunes, Sir, I'le leaue: You know the best, and worst, and all. Nay then Thou tempt'st me o thy ruine; come blacke angell, Faire diuell, in thy prayers reckon vp The summe, in grosse, of all thy vayned follies: There, amongst other, weepe in teares of blood, For one aboue the rest; Adultery, Adultery, Biancha; such a guilt, As were the sluces of thine eyes let vp, Teares cannot wash it off: 'tis not the tyde Of triuiall wontonnesse from youth to youth, But thy abusing of thy lawfull bed, Thy husbands bed; his, in whose brest thou sleep'st: His, that did prize thee more then all the trash Which hoarding worldlings make an Idoll of: When thou shalt find the Catalogue enrold Of thy mis-deds, there shall be writ, in Text, Thy bastarding, the issues of a Prince. Now turne thine eyes into thy houering soule, And doe not hope for life: would Angels sing A rquiem at my hearse? but to dispense With my Reuenge on thee, 'twere all in vaine: Prepare to dye. I, doe; and to the point Of thy sharpe sword, with open brest I'le runne Halfe way thus naked: doe not shrinke, Caraffa, This dants not me: but in the latter act. Of thy Ruenge, 'tis all the sute I aske At my last gaspe, to spare thy noble friend; For life to me, without him, were a death.