Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Let me be open Madam to your love, 'Tis but the doom of justice I sustain; I know I wronged your daughter's innocence, And only know it now, for plagues make known That, oft, for sin, which once we thought was none. No my good Lord, she was not innocent, In that she bounded not her loosest thoughts Within our element but would admit The dangerous fires, of ambitious love Into her Virgin breast, that's safeliest knit Where all proportion justly equal it. Wrong not her worth good Madam, the power of death Is weak to stain her name, and we were blessed. If such perfection, joined unto our Blood, Had with our son succeeded in the Throne Of this unhappy and dejected State. Believe me Madam I did ever love Althaea's Virtues, and was inly glad When by that Stratagem my son had freed Her innocence (as I protest I thought) And wished her scape as safe from that injustice As could my heart desire. Alas good Madam, I have felt your Grace Still loving to my daughter's poor deserts, And nothing did increase my sorrows more Than that I wanted means how to requite Your grace's love. Come, we forget ourselves in Ceremonies, And waste the time, whose every instant yields Scarce space enough for that large task of grief Sorrow exacts each instant from our hearts, Good Madam we will consecrate one Tomb To both their Memories; and since in life Their hearts were so united by love's hand, In death their Graves shall join: so will ourselves Bequeath the remnant of our days from hence, You to sad cares, and we to penitence. You to sad cares, and we to penitence— Why then you'll feed upon the bitter fruits Of your ambition, and by experience find, Virtue, not Honour is heaven unto the mind. Dear Father, I conceive your grief, as true As is my love, and feel methinks a sting, That spurs me onward to prevent the plagues My loss will bring upon your hoary age, And makes me think I hear the frequent voice Of potent Nature whisper to mine ear The duty that I owe, and bids me meet Those mischiefs quickly, by discovering me: But the persuasion's weak when I must owe More than a duty, or all Nature's self To the chaste merits of Althaea's love, Who was the first I murdered; then the name Of holy friendship, which my request abused In loved Antonio, whom I murdered next: My debt's above a life, which though I give, My ghost must be a slave to pay the rest, And their deserts stand yet unsatisfied. But o ye Spirits of truth! whose constant faiths Merit perhaps to hear these last laments My dying soul powers forth; be pleased to take The poor oblation of a loathsome life, Which I as gladly vow unto your loves, As misery would turn itself to bliss. And since I was a murderer to your worths, I'll choose that death that murderers do pass; And thou hadst lived Antonio, if thy love Had not before withheld me from the fall, And saving only me hath murdered all.
nodes 1799–1867 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 42 of 47 in this edition
Length
530 words · 669 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.852 (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)
Let me be open Madam to your love, 'Tis but the doome of Iuſtice I ſuſtaine; I know I wrong'd your daughters innocence, And onely know it now, for plagues make knowne That, oft, for ſinne, which once we thought was none. No my good Lord, ſhee was not innocent, In that ſhe bounded not her looſeſt thoughts Within our element but would admit The dangerous fires, of ambitious love Into her Virgin breſt, that's ſafelyeſt knit Where all proportion juſtly equals it. Wrong not her worth good Madam, the power of death Is weake to ſtaine her name, and we were bleſt. If ſuch perfection, joyn'd unto our Blood, Had with our ſonne ſucceeded in the Throne Of this unhappy and dejected State. Beleeve me Madam I did ever love Althea's Vertues, and was inly glad When by that Stratagem my ſon had freed Her innocence (as I proteſt I thought) And wiſh'd her ſcape as ſafe from that injuſtice As could my heart deſire. Alas good Madam, I have felt your Grace Still loving to my daughters poore deſerts, And nothing did increaſe my ſorrowes more Then that I wanted meanes how to requite Your Graces love. Come, we forget our ſelves in Ceremonies, And waſte the time, whoſe every inſtant yeelds Scarce ſpace enough for that large taske of griefe Sorrow exacts each inſtant from our hearts, Good Madam wee will conſecrate one Tombe To both their Memories; and ſince in life Their hearts were ſo united by Loves hand, In death their Graves ſhall joyne: ſo will ourſelves Bequeath the remnant of our dayes from hence, You to ſad cares, and we to penitence. You to ſad cares, and wee to poenitence— Why then you'll feed upon the bitter fruits Of your ambition, and by experience finde, Vertue, not Honour is heaven unto the minde. Deare Father, I conceive your griefe, as true As is my love, and feele methinkes a ſting, That ſpurs me onward to prevent the plagues My loſſe will bring upon your hoary age, And makes me thinke I heare the frequent voyce Of potent Nature whiſper to mine eare The duty that I owe, and bids me meet Thoſe miſchiefes quickly, by diſcovering mee: But the perſwaſion's weake when I muſt owe More then a duty, or all Natures ſelfe To the chaſte merits of Althea's love, Who was the firſt I murdred; then the name Of holy frendſhip, which my requeſt abus'd In lov'd Antonio, whom I murdred next: My debt's above a life, which though I give, My ghoſt muſt be a ſlave to pay the reſt, And their deſerts ſtand yet unſatisfy'd. But ô yee Spirits of truth! whoſe conſtant faiths Merit perhaps to heare theſe laſt laments My dying ſoule powres forth; be pleas'd to take The poore oblation of a loathſome life, Which I as gladly vow unto your loves, As miſery would turne it ſelfe to bliſſe. And ſince I was a murderer to your worths, Ile chuſe that death that murderers doe paſſe; And thou hadſt liv'd Antonio, if thy love Had not before with-held me from the fall, And ſaving onely me hath murdred all.