Shirley, James · published 1637 · first performed or written 1634 [licensed for stage, Jun 24] (Annals) comedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
For which I must pronounce thee a rascal; sordid wretch, Was this your act for me? curse on thy soul for't, My honour bleeds to death, see me no more. My Lord. You are come in a good time, sir. Are you so cunning my young Lord, I must make my Lady Sure, ere he talk, and tell her this; 'tis not' The constitution of every Lord To take unkindly when a man compounds A duel for him, if I be driven to't I can forswear't again. Let valiant fools Brag of their souls no matter what they say, A coward dares in ill, do more than they. 'tis all the favour I could show him, sir, To make my house his Prison. 'tis but hell, one story higher. You must arm yourself With noble fortitude, passion but unmans us, And makes us less for bearing. Dost think friend, The sense of all my debts could shake me thus? I knew 'twould come, and in my fears examined The mischief they present, 'tis not their weight Affrights me, let the vultures whet their Talons, And creditors, with hearts more stubborn, than The mettle they adore, double their malice, Had I a pile of debts upon me, more Heavy than all the World, it could, but with The pressure keep this piece of earth beneath 'em, My soul would be at large, and feel no burden; That which I count my torture, exceeds all That yet has been in mention. At a time, Almost the very minute, when my hopes Were ripe to punish him, and revenge had mounted Her steely arm whose fall had crushed the soul Of my fame's ravisher, to be snatched up By a whirlwind thus, disarmed of all my hopes, My hands bound up, not able to relieve My bleeding honour: this, this murders me. And that all this should be his cursed plot, That gave me my first wound. d'ee think my Lord Can show himself so dishonourable? Can Lords Be cowards? dost not appear, when I am pursued By his own bloodhounds? has he not laid on me (And what may not by this example follow To sink me to a dungeon) all the debts I owe him? nay is it not clear, he practises Intelligence abroad, provoking others To lay their sums upon me, that I may Consume a Prisoner, and assure his lust More scope to revel with my adulterous Madam, My wife whose name is torment to my heart, 'bove all the engines meant to wound mankind. Oh woman, that hast forfeited the glory. Of thy creation, and become man's ruin. This is a circumstance I confess, but yet Cannot make me conclude my Lord so ignoble: I know he had a wanton pile of flesh, But a more noble soul, than to betray His enemy so basely. Is't not mischief Enough to feel the cruelty of a prisoner, But that black fiend must persecute my eyesight Th'adopted son of Lucifer?
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)
For which I must pronounce thee a rascall; sordid wretch, Was this your act for me? curse on thy soule for't, My honor bleeds to death, see me no more. My Lord. You are come in a good time, sir. Are you so cunning my yong Lord, I must make my Ladie Sure, ere hee talke, and tell her this; 'tis not' The constitution of everie Lord To take unkindlie when a man compounds A duell for him, if I bee driven too't I can forswear't agen. Let valiant fooles Brag of their soules no matter what they say, A coward dares in ill, do more then they. Tis all the favor I could shew him, sir, To make my house his Prison. Tis but hell, one storie higher. You must arme your selfe With noble fortitude, passion but unmans us, And makes us lesse for bearing. Dost thinke friend, The sense of all my debts could shake me thus? I knew 'twould come, and in my feares examined The mischiefe they present, 'tis not their weight Affrights me, let the vultures whet their Tallons, And creditors, with harts more stubborne, then The mettle they adore, double their malice, Had I a pile of debts upon me, more Heavie then all the World, it could, but with The pressure keepe this peece of earth beneath 'em, My soule would be at large, and feele no burden; That which I count my torture, exceeds all That yet has beene in mention. At a time, Almost the verie minute, when my hopes Were ripe to punish him, and revenge had mounted Her steelie arme whose fall had crush'd the soule Of my fames ravisher, to be snatched up By a wirle-wind thus, disarm'd of all my hopes, My hands bound up, not able to releeve My bleeding honour: this, this murders mee. And that all this should be his cursed plott, That gave me my first wound. Dee thinke my Lord Can shew himselfe so dishonorable? Can Lords Be cowards? dost not appeare, when I am persued By his owne blood-hounds? has he not laid on mee (And what may not by this example follow To sinke me to a dungeon) all the debts I owe him? nay is it not cleere, hee practises Intelligence abroad, provoking others To lay their summes upon me, that I may Consume a Prisoner, and assure his lust More scope to revell with my adulterous Madam, My wife whose name is torment to my hart, Bove all the engines ment to wound mankinde▪ Oh woman, that hast forfeited the glorie▪ Of thy creation, and become mans ruine. This is a circumstance I confesse, but yet Cannot make me conclude my Lord so ignoble: I know he had a wanton pile of flesh, But a more noble soule, then to betraie His enemie so baselie. Ist not mischife Enough to feele the crueltie of a prisoner, But that black fiend must presecute my eye-sight Th'adopted sonne of Lucifer?