Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
To her grave for love's sake, an honest Husband: 'tis better than the Duke's son, that sent her from the City, to die in the Mountains? Ah 'twas unkindly done, not to go nor send after her! yet poor Lord he is killed, dead too now, and has met her Hearse here— So those two souls that ne'er were borne to have A Nuptial Bed, have found a Nuptial Grave. Beauty and Virtue strove Who should adorn her most, Till faith conspired with love, And all their labours crossed. Antonio killed! Althaea buried! Then thou hast lived Lucilio to behold The height of mischief, and the worst of chance, And thou mayst dare thy angry Stars to inflict whate'er they can effect, that's worse than this. Murdered thy friends! ruined their ancient names! Hateful to thy Parents, loathsome to thyself! O 'tis high time to die, and I do wrong Althaea's constancy to breathe an hour After I know she has prevented me. Methinks I hear love chide my backwardness. And tell me how unworthy I am grown, To have two friends so firmly virtuous, Constant and loyal, and outlive them both, Yea be their Murderer, and stand alive Spectator at their funeral, as I would bid The rest weep on, whilst I give aim to tears, And mark who grieves most deep at my foul actions. So then, let Fortune make a period here, Since we are met just in the midst of woe, And stand upon the Centre of mishap. Whence we may see the full circumference Of all that Sphere, that bounds the power of Fate. Come Madam we will mix our tears a while, Dropping them jointly on the Marble Tombs Of our dead Issue, till the stones receive Large Characters of grief, carved by the drops That ceaseless flow from our too late laments. Great Lord, if woes with woes may be compared, Or to the measure of our cause of grief we might in sad contention drop our tears, Shower for your drop, Pound for your dram of woe My breast and eyes would yield, which now are grown A boundless harbour for the depth of care. For though we meet in this, that both have lost The dearest treasures of desired life, Yet hath your Grace a partner in distress A comfort to the residue of your years, And therefore hope that Heaven may yet restore This ruin of your House. Besides you have The body of your son, on whose dead corpse You may bestow your tears, and honour him With fitting place and Royal exequies: When Heaven hath shut those comforts from my heart, Left me a widow to sustain the weight Of all this burden, and no partner else To bring mine aged hairs unto the grave But still repining grief: and am denied The ashes of my child, on whose cold Hearse Mine eyes might pay those tributary tears Which her misfortune, and my woes exact, And only can embrace an empty shrine. Yet my good Lord, I oft forget my cares To grieve at yours, and wish Althaea's death Might have sufficed the anger of the Fates, Without Lucilio's blood, whose guiltless fall Hath struck a sadness through th'appalled looks Of all your subjects, made them stand amazed, And wonder there should live upon the earth Envy enough to blast such graceful hopes.
nodes 1732–1798 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 41 of 47 in this edition
Length
565 words · 719 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.824 (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)
To her grave for love's ſake, an honeſt Husband: tis better then the Dukes ſonne, that ſent her from the City, to dye in the Mountaines? Ah 'twas unkindly done, not to goe nor ſend after her! yet poore Lord hee is kill'd, dead too now, and has met her Hearſe here— So thoſe two ſoules that ne'r were borne to have A Nuptiall Bed, have found a Nuptiall Grave. Beauty and Vertue ſtrove Who ſhould adorne her moſt, Till faith conſpir'd with love, And all their labours croſt. Antonio kill'd! Althea buried! Then thou haſt liv'd Lucilio to behold The height of miſchiefe, and the worſt of chance, And thou maiſt dare thy angry Starres to inflict What ere they can effect, that's worſe than this. Murderd thy friends! ruin'd their ancient names! Hatefull to thy Parents, lothſome to thy ſelfe! O 'tis high time to die, and I doe wrong Althea's conſtancy to breath an houre After I know ſhe has prevented me. Methinkes I heare love chide my backwardneſſe. And tell me how unworthy I am growne, To have two friends ſo firmely vertuous, Conſtant and loyall, and outlive them both, Yea be their Murderer, and ſtand alive Spectator at their funerall, as I would bid The reſt weep on, whil'ſt I give ayme to teares, And marke who grieves moſt deep at my foule actions. So then, let Fortune make a period here, Since we are met juſt in the midſt of woe, And ſtand upon the Center of miſhap. Whence we may ſee the full circumference Of all that Sphere, that bounds the power of Fate. Come Madam we will mixe our teares a while, Dropping them joyntly on the Marble Tombes Of our dead Iſſue, till the ſtones receive Large Characters of griefe, carv'd by the drops That ceaſeleſſe flow from our too late laments. Great Lord, if woes with woes may be compar'd, Or to the meaſure of our cauſe of griefe Wee might in ſad contention drop our teares, Shower for your drop, Pound for your dramme of woe My breſt and eyes would yeeld, which now are growne A boundleſſe harbour for the depth of care. For though wee meet in this, that both have loſt The deareſt treaſures of deſired life, Yet hath your Grace a partner in diſtreſſe A comfort to the reſidue of your yeares, And therefore hope that Heaven may yet reſtore This ruine of your Houſe. Beſides you have The body of your ſonne, on whoſe dead Coarſe You may beſtow your teares, and honour him With fitting place and Royall exequies: When Heaven hath ſhut thoſe comforts from my heart, Left me a widow to ſuſtaine the waight Of all this burden, and no partner elſe To bring mine aged haires unto the grave But ſtill repining griefe: and am deny'd The aſhes of my childe, on whoſe cold Hearſe Mine eyes might pay thoſe tributary teares Which her misfortune, and my woes exact, And onely can embrace an empty ſhrine. Yet my good Lord, I oft forget my cares To grieve at yours, and wiſh Althea's death Might have ſuffic'd the anger of the Fates, Without Lucilio's blood, whoſe guiltleſſe fall Hath ſtrook a ſadneſſe through th'appalled lookes Of all your ſubjects, made them ſtand amaz'd, And wonder there ſhould live upon the earth Envy enough to blaſt ſuch gracefull hopes.