Ford, John · published 1633 · first performed or written 1630 [c.1630-1633] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars T38 Death, parting and grief at court typicality 0.87 · 496 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
He is. On to the dance: Dear cousin, hand you the Bride, the Bridegroom must be Intrusted to my Courtship: be not icao Euphranea, I shall scarcely prove a temptress: Fall to our dance. The King your father's dead.— in Calantha's ear To the other change. Is't possible? O Madam! Penthea, poor Penthea's starved. Beshrew thee, Lead to the next. Amazement dulls my senses. Brave Ithocles is murdered, murdered cruelly. How dull this music sounds? strike up more sprightly? Our footings are not active like our heart Which treads the nimbler measure. I am thunderstruck. So, let us breathe a while: hath not this motion Raised fresher colour on your cheeks? Sweet Princess. A perfect purity of blood enamels The beauty of your white. We all look cheerfully: And cousin, 'tis, methinks, a rare presumption In any, who prefers our lawful pleasures Before their own sour censure, to interrupt The custom of this Ceremony bluntly. None dares, Lady. Yes, yes; some hollow voice delivered to me How that the King was dead. The King is dead: That fatal news was mine; for in mine arms He breathed his last, and with his Crown bequeathed 'ee Your mother's wedding Ring, which here I tender. Most strange! Peace crown his ashes: we are queen then. Long live Calantha, Sparta's Sovereign Queen. Long live the Queen. What whispered Bassanes? That my Penthea, miserable soul, Was starved to death. she's happy; she hath finished A long and painful progress.— A third murmur Pierced mine unwilling ears. That Ithocles Was murdered; rather butchered, had not bravery Of an undaunted spirit, conquering terror, Proclaimed his last Act triumph over mine. How? murdered? By whose hand? By mine; this weapon Was instrument to my revenge: the reasons Are just and known: quit him of these, and then Never lived Gentleman of greater merit, Hope, or habiliment to steer a kingdom. Fie Orgilus. Fie brother. You have done it. How it was done let him report, the forfeit Of whose allegiance to our laws doth covet Rigour of justice; but that done it is, Mine eyes have been an evidence of credit Too sure to be convinced: Armostes, rent not Thine Arteries with hearing the bare circumstances Of these calamities: thou'st lost a Nephew, A Niece, and I a wife: continue man still, Make me the pattern of digesting evils, Who can outlive my mighty ones, not shrinking At such a pressure as would sink a soul Into what's most of death, the worst of horrors: But I have sealed a covenant with sadness, And entered into bonds without condition To stand these tempests calmly; mark me, Nobles, I do not shed a tear, not for Penthea: Excellent misery! We begin our reign With a first act of justice: thy confession, Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence; But yet thy fathers, or thy sister's presence Shall be excused: give, Crotolon, a blessing To thy lost son Euphranea, take a farewell, And both be gone.
seed 43: T44 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
He is. On to the dance: Deare Cozen, hand you the Bride, the Bridegroome must be Intrusted to my Courtship: be not icao Euphranea, I shall scarcely proue a temptresse: Fall to our dance. The King your father's dead. — in Calantha's eare To the other change. Is't possible? O Madam! Penthea, poore Penthea's staru'd. Beshrew thee, Lead to the next. Amazement duls my senses. Braue Ithocles is murther'd, murther'd cruelly. How dull this musicke sounds? strike vp more sprightly? Our footings are not actiue like our heart Which treads the nimbler measure. I am thunder-strooke. So, let us breath a while: hath not this motion Rais'd fresher colour on your cheeks? Sweet Princesse. A perfect purity of blood enamels The beauty of your white. We all looke cheerfully: And Cozen, 'tis, me thinks, a rare presumption In any, who prefes our lawfull pleasures Before their owne sowre censure, to interrupt The custome of this Ceremony bluntly. None dares, Lady. Yes, yes; some hollow voyce deliuer'd to me How that the King was dead. The King is dead: That fatall newes was mine; for in mine armes He breath'd his last, and with his Crowne bequeath'd 'ee Your mothers wedding Ring, which here I tender. Most strange! Peace crown his ashes: we are queen then. Long lie Calanha, Sparta's Soueraigne Queene. Long liue the Queene. What whispered Bass ? That my Penthea, miserable soule, Was starn'd to death. Shee's happy; she hath finish'd A long and painefull progresse.— A third murmure Pierc'd mine vnwilling eares. That Ithocles Was murther'd; rather butcher'd, had not brauery Of an vndaunted spirit, conquering terror, Proclaim'd his last Act triumph ouer mine. How? murther'd? By whose hand? By mine; this weapon Was instrument to my reuenge: the reasons Are iust and knowne: quit him of these, and then Neuer liu'd Gentleman of greater merit, Hope, or abiliment to steere a kingdome. Fye Orgilus. Fye brother. You haue done it. How it was done let him report, the forfeit Of whose alleageance to our lawes doth couet Rigour of Iustice; but that done it is, Mine eyes haue beene an euidence of credit Too sure to be conuinc'd: Armostes, rent not Thine Arteries with hearing the bare circumstances Of these calamities: thou'st lost a Nephew, A Neece, and I a wife: continue man still, Make me the patterne of digesting euils, Who can out-liue my mighty ones, not shrinking At such a pressure as would sinke a soule Into what's most of death, the worst of horrors: But I haue seal'd a couenant with sadnesse, And enter'd into bonds without condition To stand these tempests calmely; marke m, Nobles, I doe not shed a teare, not for Pentha: Excellent misery! We begin our reigne With a first act of Iustice: thy confession, Vnhappy Orgilus, doomes thee a sentence; But yet thy fathers, or thy sisters presence Shall be excus'd: giue, Crotolon, a blessing To thy lost sonne Euphranea, take a farewell, And both be gone.