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 0.76 · 471 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Peace and sweet rest sleep here; let not the touch Of this my impious hand, profane the shrine Of fairest purity, which hovers yet About those blessed bones enhearsed within: If in the bosom of this sacred Tomb, Biancha thy disturbed ghost doth range; Behold, I offer up the sacrifice Of bleeding tears, shed from a faithful spring; Roaring oblations of a mourning heart. To thee, offended spirit, I confess I am Caraffa, he, that wretched man, That Butcher, who in my enraged spleen Slaughtered the life of Innocence and Beauty: Now come I to pay tribute to those wounds Which I digged up, and reconcile the wrongs My fury wrought; and my Contrition mourns. So chaste, so dear a wife was never man, But I, enjoyed: yet in the bloom and pride Of all her years, untimely took her life. Enough; set open the Tomb, that I may take My last farewell, and bury griefs with her. Forbear; what art thou that dost rudely press Into the confines of forsaken-graves? Has death no privilege? Com'st thou, Caraffa, To practise yet a rape upon the dead? inhuman Tyrant, whats'ever thou intend'st, know this place Is pointed out for my inheritance: Here lies the monument of all my hopes. Had eager Lust intrunked my conquered soul, I had not buried living joys in death: Go, Revel in thy palace, and be proud To boast thy famous murders: let thy smooth Low-fawning parasites renown thy Act: Thou com'st not here. Fernando, man of darkness, Never till now (before these dreadful fights) Did I abhor thy friendship; thou hast robbed My resolution of a glorious name. Come out, or by the thunder of my rage, Thou diest a death more fearful than the scourge Of death can whip thee with. Of death? poor Duke: Why that's the aim I shoot at: 'tis not threats, (maugre thy power, of the spite of hell) Shall rent that honour: let life-hugging slaves, Whose hands imbrued in Butcheries like thine, Shake terror to their souls, be loath to die: See, I am clothed in robes that fit the grave: I pity thy defiance. Guard lay hands, And drag him out. Yes, let 'em, here's my shield Here's health to Victory.— Now do thy worst. farewell Duke, once I have outstripped thy plots: Not all the cunning Antidotes of Art Can warrant me twelve minutes of my life: It works, it works already, bravely, bravely.— Now, now I feel it tear each several joint: O royal poison? trusty friend? split, split Both heart and gall asunder; excellent bane! Roseilli love my memory; well searched out Swift nimble venom, torture every vein. ay, come Biancha,— cruel torment feast, Feast on, do; Duke farewell. Thus I— hot flames Conclude my Love— and seal it in my bosom, oh— Most desperate end!
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Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Peace and sweet rest sleep here; let not the touch Of this my impious hand, prophane the shrine Of fairest purity, which houers yet About those blessed bones inhearst within: If in the bosome of this sacred Tombe, Biancha thy disturbed ghost doth range; Behold, I offer vp the sacrifice Of bleeding teares, shed from a faithfull spring; Roaring oblations of a mourning heart. To thee, offended spirit, I confesse I am Caraffa, hee, that wretched man, That Butcher, who in my enraged spleene Slaughtered the life of Innocence and Beauty: Now come I to pay tribute to those wounds Which I digg'd vp, and reconcile the wrongs My fury wrought; and my Contrition mournes. So chast, so deare a wife was neuer man, But I, enioy'd: yet in the bloome and pride Of all her yeares, vntimely tooke her life. Enough; set ope the Tombe, that I may take My last farewell, and bury griefes with her. Forbeare; what art thou that dost rudely presse Into the confines of forsaken-graues? Has death no priuilege? Com'st thou, Caraffa, To practise yet a rape vpon the dead? Inhumane Tyrant, Whats'euer thou intend'st, know this place Is poynted out for my inheritance: Here lyes the monument of all my hopes. Had eager Lust intrunk'd my conquered soule, I had not buried liuing ioyes in death: Goe, Reuell in thy pallace, and be proud To boast thy famous murthers: let thy smooth Low-fawning parasites renowne thy Act: Thou com'st not here. Fernando, man of darknesse, Neuer till now (before these dreadfull fights) Did I abhorre thy friendship; thou hast rob'd My resolution of a glorious name. Come out, or by the thunder of my rage, Thou dy'st a death more fearefull then the scourge Of death can whip thee with. Of death? poore Duke: Why that's the ayme I shoot at: 'tis not threats, (Mager thy power, of the spight of hell) Shall rent that honour: let life-hugging slaues, Whose hands imbrued in Butcheries like thine, Shake terror to their soules, be loath to dye: See, I am cloath'd in robes that fit the graue: I pitty thy defyance. Guard lay hands, And drag him out. Yes, let 'em, here's my shield Here's health to Victory.— Now doe thy worst. Ferewell Duke, once I haue out-stript thy plots: Not all the cunning Antidotes of Art Can warrant me twelue minutes of my life: It workes, it workes already, brauely, brauely.— Now, now I feele it teare each seuerall ioynt: O royall poyson? trusty friend? split, split Both heart and gall asunder; excellen bane! Roseilli loue my memory; well search'd out Swift nimble venome, torture euery veyne. I, come Biancha,—cruell torment feast, Feast on, doe; Duke farewell. Thus I—hot flames Conclude my Loue—and seale it in my bosome, oh— Most desperate end!