Rutter, Joseph / Corneille, Pierre · published 1637 · first performed or written 1637 [1637-1638] (Annals) not in BritDrama · before the Court T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.83 · 518 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
That were to handle you with too much cruelty, If when the fight were done, you should be bound A new to demand justice, and ne'er leave, With rigour to pursue the man you love. No, it were better that his unmatched valour Should get him victory, and silence you, And that the King, according to his law Should force you to comply with your own wishes. Dost think though he be Conqueror that I will Yield myself his? my duty is too strong, And my loss over great. He may o'ercome Don Sancho easily, but not so soon The glory of Cimena. Though a Monarch Have promised me unto his victory Mine honour, (rather than I'll be his prize) Shall raise him up a thousand enemies. Take heed, lest heaven for this strange pride of yours Suffer you not to be revenged at all. What? mean you to refuse this happiness That you may when you please sit down with honour? What is't you would pretend? what can you hope? Will your lover's death restore your Father to you Or is your Father's death so small a mischief, That you'd heap up loss on loss, grief upon grief. Well, do, continue in this stubborn humour. You scarce deserve the man they 'ave destined for ye And heaven being weary of its too much favour, In stead of him, will wed you to Don Sancho. The griefs Elvira, I sustain already, Need not thy fatal augury to augment 'em, I would, if possible, avoid them both, If not, Roderigo has my best of wishes. Not that my love inclines me more to him, But lest he failing, I should be Don Sancho's. The thought of that, makes me to wish him well. What's this Elvira? See 'tis done already. AT your feet, madam, I present this sword. What that yet reaking with Roderigo's blood? Traitor, how dar'st thou come into my sight, When thou hast ravished from me, all I loved? Shine now at full my love, thou needest not fear, My Father's satisfied. One only blow, has to mine honour given security, To my soul despair, to my love liberty. Hear me with better temper. Dar'st thou yet Speak to me? Cursed murderer of that Heros Which I do most adore. Go, thou hast slain him Perfidiously, for otherwise that man Could never fall by such a hand as thine. But hear him, madam. What wouldst thou have me hear? Can I doubt, when my eyes are satisfied, I have obtained the mischief which I sought for, And my just suit has had too good success, Pardon dear love, it's bloody cruelty. Think though a lover, yet I was a daughter. If on thy blood I have revenged my Father. For thy revenge I will exhaust my own, My soul has nothing now, that should retain it, It shall go after thine, to ask it pardon. And thou that think'st t'obtain me by his death, Disloyal minister of my cruel fate, Hope nothing at my hands. Thou hast done me No service, only hastened on my death.
before the Court;Phoenix/Cockpit;Indoor Professional
Genre (British Drama)
not in BritDrama
Play type
Boys Professional;Professional;Translation
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 1059 · TCP A19346 · DEEP 878
Edition role
Representative edition — used in the analysis
Position
nodes 1525–1589 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 25 of 27 in this edition
Length
518 words · 681 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.832 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
That were to handle you with too much cruelty, If when the fight were done, you ſhould be bound A new to demand juſtice, and neare leave, With rigour to purſue the man you love. No, it were better that his unmatch'd valour Should get him victory, and ſilence you, And that the King, according to his law Should force you to comply with your owne wiſhes. Doeſt thinke though he be Conquerour that I will Yeeld my ſelfe his? my duty is too ſtrong, And my loſſe over great. He may o'recome Don Sancho eaſily, but not ſo ſoone The glory of Cimena. Though a Monarch Have promis'd me unto his victory Mine honour, (rather than I'le be his prize) Shall raiſe him up a thouſand enemies. Take heed, leſt heav'n for this ſtrange pride of yours Suffer you not to be reveng'd at all. What? meane you to refuſe this happineſſe That you may when you pleaſe ſit down with honour? What is't you would pretend? what can you hope? Will your Lovers death reſtore your Father to you Or is your Fathers death ſo ſmall a miſchiefe, That you'd heape up loſſe on loſſe, griefe upon griefe. Well, doe, continue in this ſtubborne humour. You ſcarce deſerve the man they 'ave deſtin'd for ye And heaven being weary of its too much favour, In ſtead of him, will wed you to Don Sancho. The griefes Elvira, I ſuſtaine already, Need not thy fatall augury to augment 'um, I would, if poſſible, avoid them both, If not, Roderigo has my beſt of wiſhes. Not that my love inclines me more to him, But leſt he fayling, I ſhould be Don Sancho's. The thought of that, makes me to wiſh him well. What's this Elvira? See 'tis done already. AT your feet, Madame, I preſent this ſword. What that yet reaking with Roderigo's bloud? Traytor, how dar'ſt thou come into my ſight, When thou haſt raviſh'd from me, all I lov'd? Shine now at full my love, thou need'ſt not feare, My Father's ſatisfi'd. One onely blow, as to mine honour giv'n ſecurity, To my ſoule deſpaire, to my love liberty. Heare me with better temper. Dar'ſt thou yet Speake to me? Curſed murderer of that Heros Which I doe moſt adore. Goe, thou haſt ſlaine him Perfidiouſly, for otherwiſe that man Could never fall by ſuch a hand as thine. But heare him, Madame. What wouldſt thou have me heare? Can I doubt, when my eyes are ſatisfied, I have obtain'd the miſchiefe which I ſought for, And my juſt ſuit has had too good ſucceſſe, Pardon deare love, its bloudy cruelty. Thinke though a lover, yet I was a daughter. If on thy bloud I have reveng'd my Father. For thy revenge I will exhauſt my owne, My ſoule has nothing now, that ſhould retaine it, It ſhall goe after thine, to aske it pardon. And thou that think'ſt t'obtaine me by his death, Diſloyall miniſter of my cruell fate, Hope nothing at my hands. Thou haſt done me No ſervice, onely haſtned on my death.