Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
No. 'Twere a lamentable piece of stuff to see great Statesmen have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all your eyes. Mine I protest are free. And mine by heaven. Free from one good look till the blow be given. Wine; a full Cup crowned to Medina's health. Your Highness this day so much honours me, That I to pay you what I truly owe, My life shall venture for it. So shall mine. Onaelia, you are sad: why frowns your brow? A foolish memory of my past ills Folds up my look in furrows of old care, But my heart's merry, Sir. Which mirth to heighten, Your Bridegroom and yourself first pledge this health Which we begin to our high Constable. Is 't speeding? As all our Spanish figs are. Here's to Medina's heart with all my heart. My heart shall pledge your heart i'th' deepest draught That ever Spaniard drank. Medina mocks me, Because I wrong her with the largest Bowl: I'll change with thee, Onaelia. Sir you shall not. Fear you I cannot fetch it off! Malateste! This is your scorn to her, because I am doing This poorest honour to her: Music sound, It goes were it ten fathoms to the ground. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon. Sweet royal Sir no more, it is too deep. 'twill hurt your health sir. Interrupt me in my drink: 'tis off. Alas sir; You have drunk your last, that poisoned bowl I filled Not to be put into your hand, but hers. Poisoned? Descend black speckled soul to hell. The Queen has sent me thither. What new fury shakes now her snakes locks. ay, ay, 'tis I; Whose soul is torn in pieces, till I send This Harlot home. More murders! save the Lady. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus. Keep 'em asunder. How is it, royal son? I feel no poison yet, only mine eyes Are putting out their lights: methinks I feel Death's Icy fingers stroking down my face; and now I'm in a mortal cold sweat. Dear my Lord. Hence, call in my Physicians. Thy Physician, Tyrant, Dwells yonder, call on him or none. Bloody Medina, stab'st thou Brutus too? As he is, so are we all. I burn, My brains boil in a cauldron, O one drop Of water now to cool me. Oh let him have Physicians. Keep her back. Physicians for my soul, I need none else; You'll not deny me those: oh holy Father, Is there no mercy hovering in a cloud For me a miserable King so drenched In perjury and murder? Oh Sir great store. Come downe, come quickly doue. I'll forthwith send For a grave friar to be your Confessor. Do, do. And he shall cure your wounded soul: Fetch him good Soldier. So good a work I'll hasten.
nodes 1581–1657 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 26 of 27 in this edition
Length
477 words · 655 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.830 (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)
No. 'Twere a lamentable peece of stuffe to see great Statesmen have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all your eyes. Mine I protest are free. And mine by heaven. Free from one good looke till the blow be given. Wine; a full Cup crown'd to Medina's health. Your Highnesse this day so much honors me, That I to pay you what I truly owe, My life shall venture for it. So shall mine. Onaelia, you are sad: why frownes your brow? A foolish memory of my past ills Folds up my looke in furrowes of old care, But my heart's merry, Sir. Which mirth to heighten, Your Bridegroome and your selfe first pledge this health Which we begin to our high Constable. Is t speeding? As all our Spanish figs are. Here's to Medina's heart with all my heart. My hart shal pledge your hart i'th deepest draught That ever Spanyard dranke. Medina mockes me, Because I wrong her with the largest Bowle: I'le change with thee, Onlia. Sir you shall not. Feare you I cannot fetch it off! Malatete! This is your scorne to her, because I am doing This poorest honour to her: Musicke sound, It goes were it ten fadoms to the ground. Fate strikes with the wrong weapon. Sweet royall Sir no more, it is too deepe. Twill hurt your health sir. Interrupt me in my drinke: tis off. Alas ir; You have drunke your last, that poyson'd bowle I fill'd Not to be put into your hand, but hers. Poyson'd? Descend blacke speckled soule to hell. The Queene has sent me thither. What new furie shakes now her snakes locks. I, I, tis I; Whose soule is torne in peeces, till I send This Hatlot home. More murders! save the Lady. Rampant? let the Constable make a mittimus. Keepe 'em asunder. How is it, royall sonne? I feele no poyson yet, onely mine eyes Are putting out their lights: me thinks I feele Deaths Icy fingers stroking downe my face; and now I'me in a mortall cold sweat. Deare my Lord. Hence, call in my Physicians. Thy Physician, Tyrant, Dwels yonder, call on him or none. Bloody Medina, stab'st thou Brutus too? As hee is, so are we all. I burne, My braines boyle in a Caldron, O one drop Of water now to coole me. Oh let him have Physicians. Keepe her backo. Physicians for my soule, I need none else; You'll not deny me those: oh holy Father, Is there no mercy hovering in a cloud For me a miserable King so drench'd In perjury and murder? Oh Sir great store. Come downe, come quickly doue. I'le forthwith send For a grave Fryer to be your Confessor. Doe, doe. And he shall cure your wounded soule: Ftch him good Sovldier. So good a worke I'le hasten.