Nabbes, Thomas · published 1637 · first performed or written 1637 (Annals) masque · King's Revels Company (?) · Salisbury Court unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 491 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Hold I command ye: How dare ye insult Upon my weakness thus? Oh I am wounded. Perfidious villains, was this treachery Your duties act? What fury prompted ye To such inhuman violence? Will no hand Of art or heaven supply me with a balm! Then I must die, and bury all my glories ere they are fully gazed at. Why did nature Produce me for her darling; and not arm My passive body with a proof 'gainst thunder? Oh thou in whose embraces I have slept And dreamt of heaven, when my waking sense Possessed delights in thee, I seemed to ride Commanding pleasure as if she had been My captive, and her spoils enriched the triumph; Help now to save me: or with wonted kisses Make me to lose the sense of this great pain My bleeding wounds inflict. Let me expire Within thy bosom, and I shall forget That death hath any horror. This Physander! I know him not. The bloody spectacle Is too offensive: Would it were removed. Please you, I'll carry the Calf into my Slaughter-house. But I fear he'll hardly be dressed for your Ladyship's tooth: he hath bled too much to be sweet flesh. Not know me Lady! how am I transformed! The sand of many minutes hath not fallen From times gray glass, since you vouchsafed to call me Lord of yourself and pleasures. Let me have Another sweet heart one whose lusty heat May warm my bosom. Gather all the flowers Tempe is painted with, and strew his way. Translate my Bower to Turias rosy banks, There, with a Chorus of sweet nightingales Make it continual Spring. If the Sun's rays Offend his tender skin, and make it sweat, Fan him with silken wings of mildest air; Breathed by Etesian winds. The briskest Nectar Shall be his drink, and all th' Ambrosian cates, Art can devise for wanton appetite. Furnish his banquet. As his senses tire, vary the object. Let delights be linked, So in a circled chain no end we see, Pleasure is only my eternity. Sick Sir farewell. By that time you are deadI Will have made you a caudle. I sure have dreamt; all past was but illusion. Hold out ye bloodless Organs until I Have railed upon this strumpet, then I'll die. How my distraction swells my tongue with curses? That I could shoot the poison of a basilisk From my inflamed eyes, or infect the air With my last breath to kill her. Ha, ha, he. Who's that can laugh at misery? 'Tis! That triumph in thy ruine. I contriv'd t, And caused divorce betwixt thee and thy wife: Whom now! will torment. That wound is deeper Than all the rest Calling to mind my ills, That left a chaste wife for the loose embraces sensuality, a painted whore, with beasts. Death hold thy ashye hand, Till I am conciled to my Bellanima, Then strike and spare not.
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)
Hold I command yee: How dare yee insult Vpon my weaknesse thus? Oh I am wounded. Perfidious villaines, was this trechery Your duties act? What fury prompted yee To such inhuman violence? Will no hand Of art or heaven supply me with a balme! Then I must die, and bury all my glories E're they are fully gaz'd at. Why did nature Produce me for her darling; and not arme My passive body with a proofe 'gainst thunder? Oh thou in whose embraces I have slept And dream't of heaven, when my waking sense Possest delights in thee, I seem'd to ride Commanding pleasure as if she had been My captive, and her spoyles enrich't the triumph; Helpe now to save me: or with wonted kisses Make me to lose the sense of this great paine My bleeding wounds inflict. Let me expire Within thy bosome, and I shall forget That death hath any horrour. This Physander! I know him not. The bloudy spectacle Is too offensive: Would it were remov'd. Please you, Ile carry the Calfe into my Slaughterhouse. But I feare hee'l hardly be drest for your Ladyships tooh: he hath bled too much to be sweet flesh. Not know me Lady! how am I transform'd! The sand of many minutes hath not fall'n From times gray glasse, since you vouchsaf't to call me Lord of your selfe and pleasures. Let me have Another sweet heart one whose lustie heat May warm my bosome. Gather all the flowers Tempe is paynted with, and strew his way. Translate my Bower to Turias rosie bankes, There, with a Chorus of sweet nightingales Make it continuall Spring. If the Sunnes rayes Offend his tender skin, and make it sweat, Fan him with silken wings of mildest ayre; Breath'd by Etesian windes. The briskest Nectar Shall be his drink, and all th' Ambrosian cates, Art can devise for wanton appetite. Furnish his banquet. As his senses tire, Varye the object. Let delights be linck't, So in a circled chayne no end we see, Pleasure is onely my eternity. Sick Sir farewell. By that time you are dead▪ Will have made you a cawdle. I sure have dream't; all past was but illusion. Hould out ye bloodlesse Organes untill I Have rayl'd upon this strumpet, then I'le dye. How my distraction swells my tongue with curses? That I could shoot the poyson of a asiliske From my inflam'd eyes▪ or infect the ayre With my last breath to kill her. Ha, ha, he. Who's that can laugh at misy? 'Tis! That triumph in thy ruine. I contriv'd t, And caus'd divorce betwixt thee and thy wife: Whom now! will torment. That wound is deeper Then all the est Calling to mind my ills, That left a chast wie for the loose embraces O nualitie, a paynted whore, with beasts. Dath hold thy ashye hand, Till concil'd to my Bellanima, Then stie and spare not.