The Vow Breaker, or The Fair Maid of Clifton · chunk 23 of 36
Sampson, William · published 1636 · first performed or written 1625 [1625(?)-1636] (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.75 · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Still I nothing anywhere. Pray listen; Would not that Physician be well hanged That for his practice' sake Kills his patient, And after pleads a sorrow to his friends? She weeps, an evidence of a hearty sorrow, My boy would not have seen her weep thus long, But he'd have ministered comfort I my tears Plays the thief with mine eyes too. Yet all is safe; sure it was but my dreams, Sir you had a son, bless me 'tis here now. In the same figure that it used to be. Peace is more dear, and precious unto me Then a night's rest, to a man turmoiled in Law. My eyes set here unmoved, i'll gaze with thee, Until the windows of my head drop out. But then my mind willbe afflicted too. For what is unseen there, is visible here. Lead me, i'll follow; though to a desert, Or any uncouth place, work thy vengeance, And do not torture me alive; neither All things keep their time! Let all times daughters which are days, convert To one day, and bring me to my period, Whom converses she withal? To her unseen fancies. See with eyes of wonder! see! What should I see? Ask you what? why 'tis your son, Just as he died, look, look, there, here, there. Is this thy sorrow, com'st thou to mock me? Just heavens not I! see how it smiles on you, On me it hurls a dejected look. Because I hang his Picture ne'er my bed, Com'st thou to laugh me! out out, fondling Noah! See thus I gaze on it; stroke his snowy hands, And prune the curled tresses of his locks, Which the artsman neatly has disheveled. Good sir; have patience, her's is true sorrow, And not derision. Another Ganymede! This eye, and yond, are one? this front, that lip, This cheek, a little ruddier shows than that, The very ashy paleness of his face, The mossy down still growing on his chin, And so his Alabaster finger pointing To the bracelet, whereon the piece of gold We broke between us hangs. Certes she's mad. Pray come hither, You shade this Picture from the perceant Sun, And curtain it, to keep it from the dust, Why are you not as chary then of that? It looks as it were could, alas poor Picture, here's but one Picture! I say theirs two, You will not see this for to save a Curtain, His knotty curls, like to Apollo's trammels Neatly are displayed; I'll swear the Painter That made this piece, had the other by it. Why do you not speak too it? 'tis your son, May be, he's tongue-tied, and cannot crave blessing, I could tell thee, I nailed him to the Earth Riveted a stake quite through his bosom, And bid thee go seek him; but I love not To mock miseries; i'll take this Picture hence, It troubles your sight.
nodes 1142–1208 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 23 of 36 in this edition
Length
490 words · 663 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.749 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Still I nothing any where. Pray listen; Would not that Physitian be well hang'd That for his practise sake Kills his patient, And after pleades a sorrow to his freinds? She weepes, an evidence of a harty sorrow, My boy would not have seene her weepe thus long, But hee'd have minister'd comfort I my teares Playes the theife with mine eies too. Yet all is safe; sure it was but my dreames, Sir you had a son, blesse me 'tis here now. In the same figure that it us'd to be. Peace is more deare, and pretious unto me Then a nights rest, to a man turmoil'd in Law. My eies set heere un-mou'd, i'le gaze with thee, Vntill the windowes of my head drop out. But then my minde wilbe afflicted too. For what is unseene there, is visible here. Leade me, i'le follow; though to a desart, Or any uncouth place▪ worke thy vengeance, And doe not torture me alive; neyther▪ All things keepe their time! Let all times daughters which are daies, convert To one day, and bring me to my period, Whom converses she withall? To her unseene fancies. See with eies of wonder! see! What should I see? Aske you what? why 'tis your son, Just as he di'd, looke, looke, there, here, there. Is this thy sorow, com'st thou to mocke me? Just heavens not I! see how it smiles on you, On me it hurles a dejected looke. Because I hang his Picture ne're my bed, Com'st thou to laugh me! out out, fond-ling noe! See thus I gaze on it; stroke his snowy hands, And prune the curled tresses of his locks, Which the Arts-man neatly has dishevell'd. Good sir; have patience, her's is true sorow, And not derision. Another Ganimede! This eye, and yon'd, are one? this front, that lip▪ This cheeke, a litle ruddier showes then that, The very ashie palenes of his face, The mossie downe still growing on his chin, And so his Alablaster finger pointing To the bracelet, whereon the peece of gold We broke betweene us hangs. Certes shee's madd. Pray come hither, You shade this Picture from the pearsant Sun, And curtaine it, to keepe it from the dust, Why are you not as chary then of that? It lookes as it were could, alas poore Picture, Hee'rs but one Picture! I say theirs two, You will not see this for to save a Curtaine, His knotty curles, like to Apollo's tramells Neatly are display'd; I'le sweare the Painter That made this peece, had the other by it. Why doe you not speake too it? 'tis your son, May be, he's tongue-tide, and cannot crave blessing, I could tell thee, I nail'd him to the Earth Riveted a stake quite through his bosome, And bid thee goe seeke him; but I love not To mocke miseries; i'le take this Picture hence, It troubles your sight.