Nabbes, Thomas · published 1637 · first performed or written 1635 (Annals) tragedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.75 · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Why doth Massanissa Invoke vain aid? The gods are merciful In their denying it: and 'tis but justice That I should die; m'adulterous easiness Deserved it, that without the least resistance Left my yet living husband to embrace His enemy. But it had warrant from The end, my country's good, and the first love I bore thee Massanissa. Now let Scipio Boast of his conquest; Sophonisba is Her own subverter. It begins to work With a full strength: my blood would serve to heat A Salamander, and convert his ice Into a flame. Aetna's but painted fire To that which burns my marrow. Yet my looks Are cheerful and erected. Victory Was never met more joyfully, than I Embrace that death prevents my misery. My weak earth totters underneath a weight That sinks it downwards: my still living spirit rides upon clouds to reach Ioves highest sky. Who fear not death, but in the worst part die. She's dead. Sink ye supporters of this fabric Into your deep foundations; make them graves For your own ruins, since there is not left A weight worthy your bearing. she's not dead: Only she hath translated her divinity To its own blessed abodes, and calls on me To pay a mortals duty. shalt have sacrifice, And rich too. Kings out of devotion shall Offer themselves in flames, and from their ashes Rise glorious stars; whence learned curiosity Deriving a new art, shall teach Astrologers The virtues of an influence shall include Secrets to make credulity astonished At their presages. I will be their precedent; And make this earth, already consecrated With Sophonisba's precious feet, an altar. Open thy crannies to receive my blood, And from its mixture spring a grove of Balsam. Led by whose ravishing odour the new issue Of every Phoenix shall neglect Panehaia, To bring her mother's spicy death bed hither, That's likewise her own cradle. But this action Should have more state, and ceremony. No. A King's the Priest; a King's the Sacrifice; His own sword whilst 'tis yet warm with his victory Shall serve forth' axe, and so— Shall I but die then? I'll live to pay her more than th'expiration Of a short breath, and die to all delights, But what I can derive from her fair memory: Which shall be treasured here; and by its virtue Revive to kill me; every life it gives Causing another death. The Lady dead! To Scipio's malice. Could not Massanissa Acquit himself of one, but by committing A greater folly! But I must not chide. Most worthy Massanissa! Keep your flattery. I have no Sophonisba. Touch her not: None but myself shall bear her to the pile. The sacrilegious hand beside attempts it I will cut off. Your triumph shall not twice Kill Sophonisba. With best care attend him Unto our Tent; lest that his passion grow Into a desperate frenzy, I must cure it By counsel mixed with gifts. In that weak woman Half Carthage strength is gone.
nodes 1375–1445 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 19 of 31 in this edition
Length
499 words · 664 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.747 (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)
Why doth Massanissa Invoke vaine aide? The gods are mercifull In their denying it: and 'tis but justice That I should dye; m'adulterous easinesse Deserv'd it, that without the least resistance Left my yet living husband to embrace His enemy. But it had warrant from The end, my Countries good, and the first love I bare thee Massanissa. Now let Scipio Boast of his conquest; Sophonisba is Her owne subverter. It begin's to worke With a full strength: my blood would serve to heate A Salamander, and convert his ice Into a flame. Aetna's but painted fire To that which burn's my marrow. Yet my lookes Are cherefull and erected. Victory Was never met more joyfully, then I Embrace that death prevents my misery. My weake earth totters underneath a weight That sink's it downewards: my still living spirit Rid's upon clowds to reach Ioves highest skie. Who feare not death, but in the worst part dye. She's dead. Sincke ye supporters of this fabrick Into your deep foundations; make them graves For your owne ruines, since there is not left A weight worthy your bearing. Shee's not dead: Only she hath translated her divinity To it's owne blest abodes, and call's on me To pay a mortals duty. Shallt have sacrifice, And rich too. Kings out of devotion shall Offer themselves in flames, and from their ashes Rise glorious stars; whence learned curiosity Deriving a new art, shall teach Astrologers The vertues of an influence shall include Secrets to make credulity astonish't At their presages. I will be their president; And make this earth, already consecrated With Sophonisba's pretious feete, an altar. Open thy crannies to receive my blood, And from it's mixture spring a grove of Balsame. Led by whose ravishing odour the new issue Of every Phoenix shall neglect Panehaia, To bring her mothers spicy death bed hither, That's likewise her owne cradle. But this action Should have more state, and ceremony. No. A King's the Priest; a King's the Sacrifice; His owne sword whilst 'tis yet warme with his victory Shall serve forth' axe, and so—Shall I but dye then? I'le live to pay her more then th'expiration Of a short breath, and dye to all delights, But what I can derive from her faire memory: Which shall be treasur'd here; and by it's virtue Revive to kill me; every life it giv's Causing another death. The Lady dead! To Scipios malice. Could not Massanissa Acquit himselfe of one, but by committing A greater folly! But I must not chide. Most worthy Massanissa! Keep your flattery. I have no Sophonisba. Touch her not: None but my selfe shall beare her to the pile. The sacrilegious hand besides attempt's it I will cut off. Your triumph shall not twice Kill Sophonisba. With best care attend him Vnto our Tent; least that his passion grow Into a desperate frenzie, I must cure it By counsell mixt with gifts. In that weake woman Halfe Carthage strength is gone.