Ford, John · published 1633 · first performed or written 1632 [1632-1633] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.78 · 477 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Not dead? Not dead? yes, by my Honour's truth: why fool, Dost think I'll hug my injuries? no, Traitor; I'll mix your souls together in your deaths, As you did both your bodies in her life: Have at thee. Stay, I yield my weapon up:— Here, here's my bosom; as thou art a Duke, Dost honour goodness, if the chaste Biancha Be murdered, murder me. Faint hearted Coward, Art thou so poor in spirit? Rise and fight, Or, by the glories of my nou and me, I'll kill thee basely. Do but hear me first, Unfortunate Caraffa; thou hast butchered An Innocent, a wife as free from lust As any terms of Art can Deify. Pish, this is stale dissimulation, I'll hear no more. If ever I unshrined The Altar of her purity, or tasted More of her love, then what without control Or blame, a brother from a sister might, Rack me to Atomies: I must confess I have too much abused thee; did exceed In lawless Courtship ('tis too true) I did: But by the honour which I owe to goodness, For any actual folly I am free. 'Tis false: as much in death for thee she spoke. By yonder starry roof 'tis true. O Duke! Couldst thou rear up another world like this, Another like to that, and more, or more, Herein thou art most wretched; all the wealth Of all those worlds could not redeem the loss Of such a spotless wife: glorious Biancha, Reign in the triumph of thy martyrdom, Earth was unworthy of thee. Now on our lives we both believe him. Fernando, dar'st thou swear upon my sword To justify thy words? I dare: look here,—— 'Tis not the fear of death doth prompt my tongue, For I would wish to die; and thou shalt know, Poor miserable Duke, since she is dead, I'll hold all life a hell. Biancha chaste! As virtue's self is good, Chaste, chaste, and killed by me; to her I offer up this remnant of my— Hold, Be gentler to thyself. Alas my Lord, this is a wise man's carriage. Whither now, Shall I run from the day, where never man Nor eye, nor eye of heaven, may see a dog So hateful as I am? Biancha chaste, Had not the fury of some hellish rage Blinded all reason's sight, I might have seen Her clearness in her confidence to die. your leave— 'tis done, come friend, now for her love, Her love that praised thee in the pangs of death, I'll hold thee dear: Lords, do not care for me, I am too wise to die yet— oh Biancha. The Lord Abbot of Monacho, sir, is in his return from Rome, lodged last night late in the City, very privately; and hearing the report of your journey, only intends to visit your Duchess tomorrow.
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)
Not dead? Not dead? yes, by my Honor's truth: why foole, Dost thinke I'le hug my iniuries? no, Traytor; I'le mixe your soules together in your deaths, As you did both your bodies in her life: Haue at thee. Stay, I yeeld my weapon vp:— Here, here's my bosome; as thou ar a Duke, Dost honour goodnesse, if the chst Biancha Be murther'd, murther me. Faint hearted Coward, Art thou so poore in spirit? and ight, Or, by the glories of my nou and me, I'e kill thee basely. Doe but heare me first, Vnfortunate Caraffa; thou hast butcher'd An Innocent, a wife as free from lust As any termes of Art can Deifie. Pish, this is stale dissimulation, I'le heare no more. If euer I vnshrin'd The Altar of her purity, or tasted More of her loue, then what without controule Or blame, a brother from a sister might, Racke me to Atomies: I must confesse I haue too much abus'd thee; did exceed In lawlesse Courtship ('tis too true) I did: But by the honour which I owe to goodnesse, For any actuall folly I am free. 'Tis false: as much in death for thee she spake. By yonder starry roofe 'tis true. O Duke! Couldst thou reare vp another world like this, Another like to that, and more, or more, Herein thou art most wretched; all the wealth Of all those worlds could not redeeme the losse Of such a spotlesse wife: glorious Biancha, Reigne in the triumph of thy martyrdome, Earth was vnworthy of thee. Now on our liues we both beleeue him. Fernando, dar'st thou sweare vpon my sword To iustifie thy words? I dare: looke here,—— 'Tis not the feare of death doth prompt my tongue, For I would wish to dye; and thou shalt know, Poore miserabl Duke, since she is dead, I'le hold all life a hell. Biancha chast! As vertues selfe is good, Chast, chast, and kild by me; to her I offer vp this remnant of my— Hold, Be gentler to thy selfe. Alas my Lord, this is a wise mans carriage. Whither now, Shall I run from the day, where neuer man Nor eye, nor eye of heauen, may see a dogge So hatefull as I am? Biancha chaste, Had not the furie of some hllish rage Blinded all reasons sight, I might haue sene Her clearenesse in her confidence to dye. —your leaue— Tis done, come friend, now for her loue, Her loue that praisd thee in the pangs of death, Ile hold thee deere: Lords, do not care for me, I am too wise to dye yet—oh Biancha. The Lord Abbot of Monacho, sir, is in his return from Rome, lodg'd last night late in the Citie, very priuately; and hearing the report of your journey, onely intends to visite your Dutchesse to morrow.