Shirley, James · published 1635 · first performed or written 1631 [licensed for stage, May 4] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.87 · 509 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
The Duke courts him, Well go thy ways, for one of the most excellent Impudent Traitors— Yet a murmuring Of a Traitor? we shall sooner suspect him, That thinks Lorenzo guilty. I my Lord, Dare boldly swear, his honour is as free— From any treason, as myself, I did prophesy this issue. 'Tis an age Till night, I long to fold her in my arms, Prepare Sciarrha, but be very wise In the discovery, he is all touchwood. I know he is her brother, leave the managing Of things to me. Still when we expect, Our bliss, time creeps, but when the happier things Call to enjoy, each saucy hour hath wings. MY Sister, though he be the Duke, he dares not, Patience, patience, if there be such a virtue, I want it Heaven, yet keep't a little longer, It were a sin to have it, such an injury Deserves a wrath next to your own, my Sister? It has thrown wildfire in my brain Lorenzo, A thousand furies revel in my skull, Has he not sins enough in's Court to damn him. But my Roof must be guilty of new jousts, And none but Amidea? these the honours His presence brings our house? Temper your rage. Are all the Brothels rifled? no quaint piece Left him in Florence, that will meet his hot And valiant luxury, that we are come To supply his blood out of our families? Diseases gnaw his title off. My Lord— He is no Prince of mine, he forfeited His greatness, that black minute he first gave Consent to my dishonour. Then I'm sorry. Why should you be sorry sir? You say it is my Sister he would strumpet, Mine, Amidea? 'tis a wound you feel not, But it strikes through, and through the poor Sciarrah, I do not think, but all the ashes of My Ancestors do swell in their dark urns At this report, of Amidea's shame: It is their cause as well as mine, and should Heaven suffer the Duke's sin to pass unpunished, Their dust must of necessity conspire, To make an earthquake in the Temple. Sir, You said you would hear me out. Why is there more Behind? And greater Master, your high blood Till I conclude Sciarrha, I accuse not Your noble anger, which I have observed, Is not on every cheap and giddy motion Inflamed, but Sir, be thrifty in your passion, This is a petty trespass. Has mischief any name Beyond this? will it kill me with the sound? My Lord, though the dishonouring your Sister, Be such a fact, the blood of any other But Alexander could no less than expiate, Yet this sin stretches farther, and involves With hers, your greater stain did you e'er promise him? Yet why do I make any question? It were another crime, to think Afrique Could entertain a thought, so far beneath His birth, you stoop to such a horrid baseness, Than all the virtue of mankind would sicken, And soon take leave of earth. You torture me.
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Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The Duke courts him, Well go thy waies, for one of the most excellent Impudent Traytors— Yet a murmuring Of a Traitor? wee shall sooner suspect him, That thinkes Lorenzo guilty. I my Lord, Dare boldly sweare, his honor is as free— From any treason, as my selfe, I did prophisie this issue. 'Tis an age Till night, I long to fold her in my ar mes, Prepare Sciarrha, but be very wise In the discovery, hee is all touchwood. I know he is her brother, leave the managing Of things to mee. Still when we expect, Our blisse, time creepes, but when the happier things Call to enjoy, each sawcy houre hath wings. MY Sister, though hee be the Duke, he dares not, Patience, patience, if there be such a vertue, I want it Heaven, yet keep't a little longer, It were a sinne to have it, such an injury Deserves a wrath next to your owne, my Sister? It has throwne wild-fire in my braine Lorenzo, A thousand furies revell in my skull, Has he not sinnes enough in's Court to damne him. But my Roofe must be guilty of new Iusts, And none but Amidea? these the honours His presence brings our house? Temper your rage. Are all the Brothels rifled? no queint peece Left him in Florence, that will meete his hot And valiant luxury, that we are come To supply his blood out of our families? Diseases gnaw his title off. My Lord— He is no Prince of mine, he forfeited His greatnesse, that blacke minute he first gave Consent to my dishonour. Then I'me sorry. Why should you be sorry sir? You say it is my Sister he would strumpet, Mine, Amidea? tis a wound you feele not, But it strikes through, and through the poore Sciarrah, I doe not thinke, but all the ashes of My Ancestours doe swell in their darke urnes At this report, of Amidea's shame: It is their cause as well as mine, and should Heaven suffer the Dukes sinne to passe unpunishd, Their dust must of necessity conspire, To make an earthquake in the Temple. Sir, You said you would heare me out. Why is there more Behind? And greater Master, your high blood Till I conclude Sciarrha, I accuse not Your noble anger, which I have observ'd, Is not on every cheape and giddy motion Inflam'd, but Sir, be thrifty in your passion, This is a petty trespasse. Has mischiefe any name Beyond this? will it kill me with the sound? My Lord, though the dishonouring your Sister, Be such a fact, the blood of any other But Alexander could no lesse then expiate, Yet this sinne stretches farther, and involves With hers, your greater staine did you e're promise him? Yet why doe I make any question? It were another crime, to thinke Sciarrah Could entertaine a thought, so farre beneath His birth, you stoope to such a horrid basenesse, Then all the vertue of mankind would sicken, And soone take leave of earth. You torture me.