Shirley, James · published 1635 · first performed or written 1631 [licensed for stage, May 4] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.78 · 522 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
More I do confess, I did exasperate you, to kill or murder him; Give it what name you please, with joy I brought him Under the colour of your guest, to be The common sacrifice: all this I remember; But is heaven's stock of mercy spent already, That sins though great and horrid, may not be Forgiven, to the heart that groans with penitence? Are the eternal fountains quite sealed up? I was a Villain, Traitor, Murderer, In my consenting to his death, but hope Those stains are now washed off. Hast thou repented? Trust me, I have. The devil is turned religious, augment not thy damnation. As he was A lustful Duke, a Tyrant, I had lost him In his return to piety: he commanded My prayers, and fresh obedience to wait on him; he's now my Prince again. This is but cunning to save your life. My life? within there, ha? welcome. My gracious Lord. willt please your honour Command my service? Or me? Or any? Our swords and lives are yours. Perhaps your Lordship hath some business With these Gentlemen, I'll take some other time. By no means good Sciarrha: You visit seldom, those are daily with me, Men that expect employment, that wear swords, And carry spirits, both to be engaged, If I but name a cause: Gentlemen, draw. My providence has betrayed me. Now Sciarrha, you that with single valour dare come home To affront me thus; know; but too late, thy heart Is at the mercy of my breath: these swords Can fetch it when I please, and to prevent Your boast of this great daring: I beseech As you do love and honour your Lorenzo, No hand advance a weapon, sheath again, And leave us; I owe service to your loves; But must not so dishonour you. We obey. They're gone: this is some nobleness. You see I do not fear your sword; alone I have Too much advantage, yet you may imagine How easily I could correct this rashness: But in my fear to offend gracious Heaven With a new crime, having so late obtained My peace, I give you freedom. Do I dream? Pray chide me still, I will be patient To hear my shame. Is this to be believed? Doth not Lorenzo counterfeit this virtue? He does? it is impossible he should repent. Why tell me Sciarrha, and let us argue a while In cooler blood; did not you once resolve To kill the Duke too? I confess— To give him death with your own hand? Methinks it should be the same parricide In you, if not a greater; yet you change Your purpose, why did you not go through And murder him? He was converted. Good, that taught you mercy, & perhaps repentance For your intent. It did. Why should not sir The same conversion of the Duke possess My heart, with as much piety to him And sorrow for myself? if I should say You are but cunning, is this shape of honesty, And still suspect your soul to be a Traitor? Might you not blame my want of charity?
nodes 1486–1565 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 23 of 38 in this edition
Length
522 words · 672 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.783 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
More I doe confesse, I did exasperate you, to kill or murder him; Give it what name you please, with joy I brought him Under the colour of your guest, to be The common sacrifice: all this I remember; But is heavens stocke of mercy spent already, That sinnes though great and horrid, may not be Forgiven, to the heart that groanes with penitence? Are the eternall fountaines quite seal'd up? I was a Villaine, Traitor, Murderer, In my consenting to his death, but hope Those staines are now washt off. Hast thou repented? Trust me, I have. The divell is tum'd religious, augment not thy dānation. As he was A lustfull Duke, a Tyrant, I had lost him In his returne to piety: he commanded My prayers, and fresh obedience to waite on him; Hee's now my Prince agen. This is but cunning to save your life. My life? within there, ha? welcome. My gracious Lord. Wilt please your honour Command my service? Or me? Or any? Our swords and lives are yours. Perhaps your Lordship hath some businesse With these Gentlemen, Ile take some other time. By no meanes good Sciarrha: You visite seldome, those are dayly with me, Men that expect imployment, that weare swords, And carry spirits, both to be engag'd, If I but name a cause: Gentlemen, raw. My providence has betrayd me. Now Sciarrha, you that with single valour dare come home To affront me thus; know; but too late, thy heart Is at the mercy of my breath: these swords Can fetch it when I please, and to prevent Your boast of this great daring: I beseech As you doe love and honour your Lorenzo, No hand advance a weapon, sheath agen, And leave us; I owe service to your loves; But must not so dishonour you. We obey. They're gone: this is some noblenesse. You see I doe not feare your sword; alone I have Too much advantage, yet you may imagine How easily I could correct this rashnesse: But in my feare to offend gracious Heaven With a new crime, having so late obtain'd My peace, I give you freedome. Doe I dreame? Pray chide me still, I will be patient To heare my shame. Is this to be beleev'd? Doth not Lorenzo counter feit this vertue? Hee does? it is impossible he should repent. Why tell me Sciarrha, and let us argue a while In cooler blood; did not you once resolve To kill the Duke too? I confesse— To give him death with your owne hand? Methinkes it should be the same parricide In you, if not a greater; yet you chang Your purpose, why did you not goe through And murder him? He was converted. Good, that taught you mercy, & perhaps repētance For your intent. It did. Why should not sir The same conversion of the Duke possesse My heart, with as much pietie to him And sorrow for my selfe? if I should say You are but cunning, is this shape of honesty, And still suspect your soule to be a Traitor? Might you not blame my want of charitie?