Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Nor Fiddler I. Would I could cast my head too. O you damned Villains! have you betrayed me thus to shame and horror! Be not angry Damasippus: now the Antependium of your face is off, you have a more Sibylline aspect a great deal. True, he looks now just like a Goose returned out of an enchanted hole without her feathers. Just Nemesis inspire me with revenge That these unlectured miscreants may drink Of the like Cup. we have already Damasippus, our wives have mingled it. And you have both tasted of the horn of abundance— That your heads may be exalted like a brace of Bucks— According to morality virtuous Damasippus. Thou art dearly welcome good Assassino: Now cease to wonder why I sent for thee; I had a daughter once, Assassino, A comfort to mine age, life to my veins, A living Image of her father's virtues, Fair, modest, and which is half monstrous In these polluted times, inwardly chaste: I do remember such a one I had. And have still Madam, for rumour says she lives. No, no, poor Girl, rumour has oft belied her. Seest thou this Scarf? I Madam, what of that? And dost not see the letters writ in blood, That tell me she is dead, murdered, and on The Mountains buried in obscure contempt? Madam not I, Why no, I thought as much. But look Assassino, if thou hadst felt The gripes of woe that have through pierced my soul, Seen an appalling sight would make thee tremble, Or through the spectacles of love didst view A loss as dear as heaven, thou wouldst discern These bloody Characters, and meet her pale Ghost In every slumber, begging with silent shows And deep fetched groans a mother's slow revenge. Good Madam, I am sorry for it— Then to recount the wrongs, the infamy Heaped on her youth, when by most treacherous plots She was attaint of murder, and became The mark for every vulgar tongue to spit Slander and treason on her fair report; And last her undeserved imprisonment— By heavens 'twas a foul abuse; what were't best to do? And now to force her fly her dearest Country, Friends, hopes, contents, 'twixt opposite love and hate, To live in obscure exile, poor, forlorn, Suspicious still of death, and flying that, To wade each hour deep into misery, To meet another death before her, and sink Under the double hand of murder, not Into a Tomb, but a poor Mountain grave, No rites nor obsequies at her interment, Buried without a tear, unpitied, unrespected. 'Fore Heaven Madam I would revenge it. My soul Assassino labours for revenge; Yet I'm a woman, and can sprinkle them But with a few salt tears, and curse, and pray, Which is a weak foundation for my revenge To climb and overlook them. You have friends: call in the enemy, & mutiny.
nodes 1512–1573 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 36 of 47 in this edition
Length
483 words · 655 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.776 (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)
Nor Fidler I. Would I could caſt my head too. O you damn'd Villaines! have you betraid mee thus to ſhame and horrour! Be not angry Damaſippus: now the Antependium of your face is off, you have a more Sibiline aſpect a great deale. True, hee lookes now juſt like a Gooſe return'd out of an inchaunted hole without her feathers. Iuſt Nemeſis inſpire me with revenge That theſe unlectur'd miſcreants may drinke Of the like Cup. Wee have already Damaſippus, our wives have mingled it. And you have both taſted of the horne of abundance— That your heads may be exalted like a brace of Bucks— According to moralitie vertuous Damaſippus. Thou art dearly welcome good Aſſaſſino: Now ceaſe to wonder why I ſent for thee; I had a daughter once, Aſſaſſino, A comfort to mine age, life to my veines, A living Image of her fathers vertues, Faire, modeſt, and which is halfe monſtrous In theſe polluted times, inwardly chaſte: I doe remember ſuch a one I had. And have ſtill Madam, for rumour ſayes ſhe lives. No, no, poore Girle, rumour has oft bely'd her. Seeſt thou this Scarfe? I Madam, what of that? And doe'ſt not ſee the letters writ in blood, That tell me ſhe is dead, murdred, and on The Mountaines bury'd in obſcure contempt? Madam not I, Why no, I thought as much. But looke Aſſaſſino, if thou hadſt felt The gripes of woe that have through pierc'd my ſoule, Seene an appalling ſight would make thee tremble, Or through the ſpectacles of love didſt view A loſſe as deare as heaven, thou wouldſt diſcerne Theſe bloody Characters, and meet her pale Ghoſt In every ſlumber, begging with ſilent ſhowes And deep fetch'd groanes a mothers ſlow revenge. Good Madam, I am ſorry for it— Then to recount the wrongs, the infamy Heapt on her youth, when by moſt trecherous plots Shee was attaint of murder, and became The marke for every vulgar tongue to ſpit Slander and treaſon on her faire report; And laſt her undeſerv'd impriſonment— By heavens 'twas a foule abuſe; what wer't beſt to doe? And now to force her flie her deareſt Countrey, Friends, hopes, contents, twixt oppoſite love and hate, To live in obſcure exile, poore, forlorne, Suſpitious ſtill of death, and flying that, To wade each houre deep into miſery, To meet another death before her, and ſinke Vnder the double hand of murder, not Into a Tombe, but a poore Mountaine grave, No rites nor obſequies at her interment, Buried without a teare, unpitied, unreſpected. 'Fore Heaven Madam I would revenge it. My ſoule Aſſaſſino labours for revenge; Yet I'm a woman, and can ſprinkle them But with a few ſalt teares, and curſe, and pray, Which is a weake foundation for my revenge To climbe and over-looke them. You have friends: call in the enemie, & mutine.