Shirley, James · published 1637 · first performed or written 1633 [licensed for stage, Nov 11] (Annals) comedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.74 · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
I should condemn her, and despise the conquest: These things may bribe an Atheist not a Lover. But you perhaps are ignorant, I have given My faith away irrevocably, 'tis The wealth of Violante, and I won't Basely steal back a thought, and yet I thank you, I am not so inhuman. Will you not Prefer your life To honour and religion? For shame be silent could you make me Lord Of my own destiny, and that Leonora Had empires for her dower, and courted me With all the flatteries of life, to quit My vows to Violante, I would die Upon her bosom to meet death. And death You must expect which will take off this bravery. And I will kiss it, kiss it, like a Bride. So resolute? And if I cannot live My Violantes, I will die her sacrifice. Good sir, no more, you do not well to trouble The quiet of a Prisoner thus that cannot Be a too careful Steward of those minutes Left him to make his peace, tempt me no further: The Earth is not so fixed as my resolves, Rather to die then in one thought transplant My love from Violante. be undone, And this contempt shall hasten the divorce Of soul and love, die and be soon forgotten. My Violante, if there can be any joy Neighbour too so much grief, i'll pour it out To pay thy bounteous visit, if my eyes Admit no fellowship in weeping, 'tis Because my heart which saw thee first, would bid Thee welcome thither, scorning; to acknowledge There can be any thing but joy where thou art. But sadness my dear Beaumont, while there is A cause that makes thee Prisoner, I must weep And empty many springs, my eyes are now No prophets of thy sorrow but the witness, And when I think of death that waits upon thee I wither to a Ghost. Why Violante, We must all die, restrain these weeping Fountains, keep'em till I am dead, dispense 'em then Upon my grave, and I shall grow again, And in the sweet disguise of a fair Garden Salute the spring that gave me green and odour. Why should not love transform us? Be not lost In these imaginations. Or perhaps thoust ambition, she whose love made up A wonder to the World beside the pledge Of duty to her Lord, famed Artemisia Shall be no more in story for her Tomb: For on the Earth that weighs my body down When I am dead, thy tears by the cold breath Of Heaven congealed to Beaumont's memory, Shall raise a monument of Pearl to our do The great Mausolus' Sepulchre. No more Of this vain language, if you have any pity On the poor Violante. I ha' done, And yet I am going now to a long silence; Allow my sorrow to take leave Violante It shall be so, be valiant my heart Beaumont I come not to take leave of thee.
nodes 2018–2089 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 31 of 39 in this edition
Length
500 words · 635 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.739 (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)
I should condemne her, and despise the conquest▪ These things may bribe an Atheist not a Lover. But you perhaps are ignorant, I have given My faith away irrevocablie, 'tis The wealth of Violante, and I wonot Basely steale backe a thought, and yet I thanke you, I am not so inhumane. Will you not Preferre your life To honor and religion? For shame be silent could you make me Lord Of my owne destiny, and that Leonora Had empires for her dower, and courted mee With all the flatteries of life, to quit My vowes to Violante, I would die Upon her bosome to meete death▪ And death You must expect which will take off this braverie. And I will kisse it, kisse it, like a Bride. So resolute? And if I cannot live My Violantes, I will die her sacrifice. Good sir, no more, you do not well to trouble The quiet of a Prisoner thus that cannot Be a too carefull Steward of those minuts Left him to make his peace, tempt me no further: The Earth is not so fixt as my resolues, Rather to die then in one thought transplant My love from Violante. Bee undone, And this contempt shall hasten the divorce Of soule and love, die and be soone forgotten. My Violante, if there can be any joy Neighbour too so much greife, i'le powre it out To pay thy bounteous visit, if my eyes Admit no fellowship in weeping, 'tis Because my heart which saw thee first, would bid Thee welcome thither, scorning; to acknowledge There can be any thing but joy where thou art. But sadnes my deere Beaumont, while there is A cause that maks thee Prisoner, I must weepe And empty many springs, my eyes are now No prophets of thy sorrow but the witnes, And when I thinke of death that waits upon thee I wither to a Ghost. Why Violante, We must all die, restraine these weeping Fountaines, Keepe'em till I am dead, dispence 'em then Upon my grave, and I shall grow agen, And in the sweete disguise of a faire Garden Salute the spring that gave mee greene and odour. Why should not love transforme us? Bee not lost In these imaginations. Or perhapps Th▪ast ambition, she whose love made up A wonder to the World beside the pledge Of duty to her Lord, fam'd Arthemisia Shall bee no more in storie for her Tombe: For on the Earth that weighes my body downe When I am dead, thy teares by the cold breath Of Heaven congeal'd to Beaumonts memorie, Shall raise a monument of Pearle to our doe The great Mausolus Sepulcher. No more Of this vaine language, if you have any pittie On the poore Violante. I ha done, And yet I am going now to a long silence; Allow my sorrow to take leave Violante It shall be so, be valiant my heart Beaumont I come not to take leave of thee.