Fisher, Jasper · published 1633 · first performed or written 1625 [c.1611-1633] (Annals) history · at University T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.74 · 507 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O my presaging thoughts in ugly form Suggest some Tragedy. Speak: yet stay a while: I know thou killest with speaking. Be then dumb: Let sound near give those Notions airy robes. Yet speak, dispatch me: fear's as bad as death. Oh, could no tongue affirm it! Is she dead? My Mistress is. Wither ye pleasant gardens, where she trod: White lilies droop, and blasted daisies wink, And weep in pearly dew. Blind Vesper mourn, Hang thy cold tears on every grassy blade. Groan loud ye woods, and tear your leafy hair: Let wind and hoary frost kill every flower: For she is gone, who made continual May. Let foggy mists envelope Sun and Stars: For she is gone, who made perpetual day. Confounded Nature stand amazed, dissolve Thy rolling engines, and unbrace the Seas: Fling all into their first disordered lump. For thy chief paragon, thy rich Masterpiece, The jewel, for which thou didst venture all, Is lost, is lost. And can I live to speak it? How died she? By a poisoned draught. The very word (poison) infects my breath. Durst thou presume to pass that coral porch? Were not her Lips sufficient Antidote? Durst thou descend through those close winding stairs With treacherous intent? How could thy venom Seize on her, and not sweetened lose his virtue, Or rather vicious quality? May toads, Dragons, and mandrakes be thy galley-pots: This Body was a casket for the graces, No cask for poison. With her dies all love: Cupid may break his Bow, his arrows burn, Then quench his Taper in a flood of tears. Is she dead? Or in a long trance. She may revive: I'll visit her: Art may prolong her days, Whether she will or no.— Allecto rising from the lakes Of nights sad Empery: With knotty bunch of curled snakes, Doth lash fair Britany. More ghastly monster did not spring, From the Hibernian flood: With which Morindus combating, Of foe became his food. Shall no more Shepherds in the shade sit whistling without care? Shall never spear be made a spade, And sword a plowing share? Grant heaven at last, that Music loud Of bloody Mars be still: That Britain Virgins in a crowd, With hymns the sky may fill. Nor is Landora's loss, The least part of our mournful muse: Ioue Iuno for to cross, This Trojan Dame for Bride did choose. Where She doth shine, 'bove Guendoline, The Amazon of her days: And Mercia wise Law to devise. O sound Landor. praise. There doth she shine above, Clear as great Delia's horned bow, Bright as the Queen of Love, To shoot down gentle beams below. Sabrina dare Not to compare With her most splendent rays: A ring the sky, A gem her eye: O sound Lando. praise. Thus gain we ground: yet still our foes will fight, Whether they win or lose. With bloody drops Our path is printed: Thames his maiden-cheeks Blush with vermilion: Nations crave our League On every side: Yet still Cassibelane braves us, Nor will submit.
nodes 1824–1904 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 28 of 34 in this edition
Length
507 words · 715 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.738 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O my presaging thoughts in vgly forme Suggest some Tragedy. Speake: yet stay a while: I know thou kill'st with speaking. Be then dumbe: Let sound neere giue those Notions airie roabes. Yet speake, dispatch me: Feare's as bad as death. Oh, could no tongue affirme it! Is she dead? My Mistresse is. VVither ye pleasant gardens, where she trod: VVhite lillyes droope, and blasted daysies winke, And weep in pearely dew. Blind Vesper mourne, Hang thy cold teares on euery grassie blade. Groane loud ye woods, and teare your leafie haire: Let wind and hoarie frost kill euery flower: For she is gone, who made continuall May. Let foggie mistes envellop Sunne and Starres: For she is gone, who made perpetuall day. Confounded Nature stand amaz'd, dissolue Thy rowling engines, and vnbrace the Seas: Fling all into their first disordered lumpe. For thy chiefe paragon, thy rich Master-piece, The Iewell, for which thou didst venter all, Is lost, is lost. And can I liue to speake it? How died she? By a poisoned draught. The very word (poison) infects my breath. Durst thou presume to passe that corrall portch? Were not her Lippes sufficient Antidote? Durst thou descend through those close winding staires With treacherous intent? How could thy venome Seaze on her, and not sweetned loose his vertue, Or rather vitious qualitie? May toades, Dragons, and mandrakes be thy gally-pottes: This Bodie was a casket for the graces, No caske for poison. With her dies all loue: Cupid may breake his Bow, his arrowes burne, Then quench his Taper in a flood of teares. Is she dead? Or in a long traunce. She may reuiue: I'le visit her: Art may prolong her daies, Whether she will or no.— Alecto rising from the lakes Of nights sad Empery: With knotty bunch of curled snakes, Doth lash faire Britany. More ghastly monster did not spring, From the Hybernian flood: With which Morindus combating, Of foe became his food. Shall no more Shepheards in the shade sit whistling without care? Shall neuer speare be made a spade, And sword a plowing share? Grant heauen at last, that Musick loud Of bloudy Mars be still: That Britaine Virgins in a croud, With hymnes the skie may fill. Nor is Landoraes losse, The least part of our mournefull muse: Ioue Iuno for to crosse, This Troiane Dame for Bride did chuse. Where Shee doth shine, 'Boue Guendoline, The Amazon of her daies: And Mercia wise Law to deuise. O sound Landor. praise. There doth she shine aboue, Cleare as great Deliaes horned bow, Bright as the Queene of Loue, To shoote downe gentle beames below. Sabrina dare Not to compare With her most splendent raies: A ring the skie, A gem her eie: O sound Lando. praise. Thus gaine we ground: yet still our foes will fight, Whether they winne or loose. With bloody drops Our path is printed: Thames his maiden-cheekes Blush with vermilion: Nations crave our League On euery side: Yet still Cassibelane braves vs, Nor will submit.