Dekker, Thomas · published 1636 · first performed or written 1631 [1619-1631] (Annals) comedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) (?) unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 489 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Who dares? Take from that sumpter-horses back of thine, Some of those gaudy trappings to clothe mine, And keep it from the keen air, fetch me food, You fawning spaniels Some spirit of the buttery. It should be by his hunger. I am starved, Thirsty, and pined to th'bare bones, here; I'll eat at thine Own scornful board, on thine own meat, or tear it from Thy throat as 'tis chewing down. I'll try that; if my dinner be prepared, Serve me in my great state alongst this way, And as you pass two there with pistols stand. To kill that ravenous Vulture; if he dare thrust his talents Forth to make one dish his prey. Now view my face, and though perhaps you shamed To own so poor a brother, let not my heartstrings, In sunder crack, if we now being lone, You still disdain me. Wretch I know thee not, And loathe thy sight. Slave, thou shalt know me then; I'll beat thy brains out with my Galley-chain. Wilt murder thine own brother? Pride doth itself confound, What with both hands the Devil strove to have bound, Heaven with one little finger hath untied, This proves that thou mayest fall, because one blast Shakes thee already, fear not, I'll not take The whip out of your hand and tho' thou break'st Laws of humanity, and brotherhood; I'll not do so, but as a beggar should (Not as a brother) knock I at the gate Of thy hard heart for pity to come forth, And look upon my wretchedness, A shot tore to the keel that galley where I rowed; Sunk her, the men slain, I by diving scaped, And sat three leagues upon a broken-mast, Washed with the salt tears of the Sea, which wept, In pity, to behold my misery. Pox on your, tarry misery. And when heavens blest-hand hauled me to ashore To dry my wet-limbs, was I forced to fire, A deadman's straw-bed thrown into the street. Foh, thouart infectious. Oh remember this! He that does good deeds, here waits at a Table, Where Angels are his fellow servitors. I am no robin-redbreast to bring straws To cover such a corpse. Thou art turned devil, Where's thy great stomach, eat, stand, let him choose What dish he likes.— snatches a pistol: ill fly off. This then which I'll carve up On thy base bosom, see thou trivial fool, Thou art a Tyrant (o'er me) of short reign, This cock out crows thee, and thy petty kings, thouart a proud-bird, but fliest with rotten wings; To show how little for thy scorn I care, See my revenge turns all to idle-air, It upward flies and will from thence I fear Shoot darts of lightning to confound thee here. Farewell thou huge Leviathan, when thoust drunk dry, That Sea thou roll'st in, on some base shore die. Where is the Traitor? Now the house is fired,
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T30 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Who dares? Take from that sumpter-horses backe of thine, Some of those gaudie trappings to cloathe mine, And keepe it from the keene aire, fetch me food, You fawning spaniells Some spirit of the buttery. It should be by his hunger. I am starv'd, Thirsty, and pinde to th'bare bones, heere; I'le eate at thine Owne scorneful board, on thine owne meate, or teare it from Thy throate as 'tis chewing downe. I'le try that; if my dinner be prepared, Serue me in my great state along'st this way, And as you passe two there with pistolls stand. To kill that ravenous Vulture; if he dare thrust his tallents Forth to make one dish his prey. Now view my face, and tho perhaps you shamd To owne so poore a brother, let not my heart-strings, In sunder cracke, if we now being lone, You still disdaine me. Wretch I know thee not, And loath thy sight. Slave, thou shalt know me then; I'le beate thy braines out with my Gally-chaine. Wilt murther thine owne brother? Pride doth it selfe confound, What with both hands the Devill strove to have bound, Heaven with one little finger hath untyed, This proves that thou maiest fall, because one blast Shakes thee already, feare not, I'le not take The whip out of your hand and tho' thou break'st Lawes of humanitie, and brother-hood; I'le not doe soe, but as a begger should (Not as a brother) knock I at the gate Of thy hard heart for pitty to come forth, And looke upon my wretchednes, A shot Toore to the keele that gally where I row'd; Sunke her, the men slaine, I by dyving scaped, And sat three leagues upon a broken-mast, Wash't with the salt teares of the Sea, which wept, In pitty, to behold my misery. Pox on your, tarry misery. And when heavens blest-hand hal'de me to a shoore To dry my wet-limbes, was I forc'd to fire, A dead-mans straw-bed throwne into the streete. Foh, th'art infectious. Oh remember this! He that does good deeds, here waits at a Table, Where Angells are his fellow servitours. I am no Robbin-red-breast to bring strawes To cover such a coarse. Thou art turn'd devill, Where's thy great stomack, eat, stand, let him choose What dish he likes.—snatches a pistoll: ill flye off. This then which I'le carve up On thy base bosome, see thou Tryviall foole, Thou art a Tyrant (o're me) of short reigne, This cock out crow's thee, and thy petty kings, Th'art a proud-bird, but fliest with rotten wings; To shew how little for thy scorne I care, See my revenge turn's all to idle-aire, It upward flies and will from thence I feare Shoote darts of lightning to confound thee heere. Farewell thou huge Leviathan, when th'ast drunk dry, That Sea thou rowl'st in, on some base shore dye. Where is the Traitor? Now the house is fiered,