The Vow Breaker, or The Fair Maid of Clifton · chunk 30 of 36
Sampson, William · published 1636 · first performed or written 1625 [1625(?)-1636] (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 505 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
What mak'st thou here, is there no other wrack, To work my miseries higher, but thyself, And art thou come for that? oh my poor girl. Monster, behold my poor boy's Picture, Thou wouldst not shed a tear, nor lend a sigh, Poor emblem of a penitential heart, When in these arms I hugged my dead boys' corpses, Now monster, who is't will weep or sigh, for thine? Monster thou troublest me. Murderer I will. See what the fruits of wealth have brought thee now, An everlasting scandal to thy name. A conscience full of horror, and black deeds; Nature's external superfluities Her white, and red Earth, rubbish, dross, and oar, Which she but lent thee to keep Marts withal, Thou hast converted to most gross abuses, Thou wouldst not else have scorned my poor boys love, To match with wealthy German; see thy fruits, Thy bases, and foundations now are sunk, And look there lies the ruins of thy works. Oh misery! my heartstrings crack with grief, Yet will not burst, oh say, hast thou yet done? Noah, I will make thee sensible of thy ills, First thou art causer of thy daughter's death, For thou enforced her to the breach of faith; Next my sons ruin, whom paraced like, Thou laughd'st at in his fatal tragedy; Whom but a villain that abjures all laws, That breaks all precepts, both of heavens, and man's, And natures too could have done this; should I Like one that dares affront divinity Laugh at thy daughter's fall. Hast thou done yet? I do beseech thee for this infant's sake, Which sets a smiling brow on miseries, And even by instinct, prays thee to forgive, Commiserate my woes; it grieves me now I did deride thy miseries; be but content I'll weep till thou shalt say, it is enough, So that we may be friends. I cannot choose. But bear a burden in calamities; Our angers have like tapers spent themselves, And only lighted others, and not us. Striving like great men for supremacy! We have confounded one another's goodness, Come we will be friends, i'll dig a solemn cell, Which shall be hung with sables round about, Where we will sit, and write the tragedy Of our poor children; I'll ha'it so set down As not one eye that views it, but shall weep Nor any ear but sadly shall relent, For never was a story of more ruth, Than this of him, and her, yet nought but truth. After the hand of war has razed your walls, Affrighting peace from your Ivory beds, And like the reaper with his angry sickle Leaves the Earth full of sores, and wounds, Yet after plasters her with her own crop; So come we after war, bloody turmoils To bring you peace, which had you sued before, Thousands that now lie bowelled in the earth Had lived to memory what we have done. Set open your gates, & with spread arms embrace her For which as follows ye have articulated,
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
VVhat mak'st thou here, is there no other wracke, To worke my miseries higher, but thy selfe, And art thou come for that? oh my poore girle. Monster, behold my poore boyes Picture, Thou would'st not shed a teare, nor lend a sigh, Poore emblem of a penitentiall heart, When in these armes I hug'd my dead boyes corpes, Now monster, who i'st will weepe or sigh, for thine? Monster thou troublest me. Murderer I will. See what the fruites of wealth have brought thee now, An everlasting scandall to thy name. A conscience full of horror, and black deedes; Natures externall superfluities Her white, and red Earth, rubbidg, drosse, and oare, VVhich she but lent thee to keepe Marts withall, Thou hast converted to most grosse abuses, Thou wouldst not else have scorn'd my poore boys love, To match with wealthy German; see thy fruits, Thy bazes, and foundations now are suncke, And looke there lyes the ruines of thy workes. Oh misery! my hart-strings cracke with griefe, Yet will not burst, oh say, hast thou yet done? Noe, I will make thee sensible of thy ils, First thou art causer of thy daughters death, For thou enforc'd her to the breach of faith; Next my sonns ruin, whom parac'd like, Thou laugd'st at in his fatall tragedy; VVhom but a villaine that abjures all lawes, That breakes all precepts, both of heave'ns, and mans, And natures too could have done this; should I Like one that dares affront divinity Laugh at thy daughters fall. Hast thou done yet? I doe beseech thee for this infants sake, VVhich sets a smiling brow on miseries, And even by instinct, prayes thee to forgive, Commiserate my woes; it greives me now I did deri'd thy miseries; be but content I'le weepe till thou shalt say, it is enough, So that we may be friends. I cannot chuse. But beare a burden in calamities; Our angers have like tapers spent themselves, And onely lighted others, and not us. Striving like great men for supremacy! VVe have confounded one anothers goodnes, Come we will be freinds, i'le dig a soleme cell, VVhich shall be hung with sables round about, VVhere we will sit, and write the tragedy Of our poore children; i'le ha'it so set downe As not one eye that vewes it, but shall weepe Nor any eare but sadly shall relent, For never was a story of more ruth, Then this of him, and her, yet nought but trnth. After the hand of warre has raz'd your walls, Affrighting peace from your Jvory beds, And like the reaper with his angry sickle Leaves the Earth full of soares, and wounds, Yet after plasters her with her owne crop; So come we after warre, bloudy turmoiles To bring you peace, which had you sued before, Thousands that now ly boweld in the earth Had liv'd to memory what we have done. Set ope your gates, & with spred armes embrace her For which as followes yee have articulated,