Berkeley, William · published 1638 · first performed or written 1637 [1637-1638] (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 484 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
You will not kill me then? When I believe there is no other means to ease you, I will do't. All but death are fled. Then draw your sword, and as I lift my arm To sheathe this in your breast, let yours pierce me, On this condition I may do your will. I may not for the world: why should you die? See how your passions blind you; is Death An ease or torment? if it be a joy, Why should you envy it your dearest friend? Our causes are not equal. They will be when you are dead: How you mistake The Laws of Friendship and commit those faults You did accuse me of! I would not live so long To think you can survive your dying friend. Eugenio I am conquered, yet I hope thy kindness Will do that for me, which thy sword refuseth: Love thy Hermione, she deserves it friend: Leave me alone a while. Your grief's too great for me to trust your life with't: I dare not venture you beyond my help. Within. Where's Prince Lysicles? where's Prince Lysicles? Hark, I am called, the fatal news is come. Fie; how unmanly's this? Can sounds affright you, Which yet you know not whether they do bring Or joys, or sorrows? when remedies are despaired of, You have still leave to die; perhaps she lives, And you'll exhale her soul into your wounds, And be the death of her you mourn for living. Within. Where's Prince Lysicles? where's Prince Lysicles? It is the voice of comfort, none would strive To be a sad relator; I'll call him, holla, here he is. The strange Lady kisses your hands, my Lord: Arnaldo Has restored her; she bade me say, your sight can only Give perfection to what he has begun. Will you die now? Softly, good friend, gently let it slide Into my breast; my hearts too narrow yet To take so full a joy in: You're sure this news is true? On my Life. Why should you doubt it? My comforts ever were like Winter Suns, That rise late, and set betimes, set with thick Clouds That hide their light at noon: but be this true, And I have life enough to let me see it: I shall be ever happy. So, 'tis well, at length his hope hath taught despair to fear. Madam, my innocence will plead my pardon; I could Not guess for whom my Lord intended it; the truth is, I feared, considering his deep melancholy, he Intended to use it on himself, and therefore meant to Make him out of love with death, by suffering the pains Our souls do feel when they are violenced from us. I had provided Antidotes, but could not, till this hour, Learn on whom it was employed: sure I was, it could Be death to none, though full of torment.
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)
You will not kill me then? VVhen I beleeve there is no other meanes to ease you, I will doe't. All but death are fled. Then draw your sword, and as J lift my arme To sheath this in your breast, let yours pierce me, On this condition J may doe your will. J may not for the world: why should you die? See how your passions blinde you; is Death An ease or torment? if it be a joy, VVhy should you envie it your dearest friend? Our causes are not equall. They will be when you are dead: How you mistake The Lawes of Friendship and commit those faults You did accuse me of! J would not live so long To thinke you can survive your dying friend. Eugenio I am conquerd, yet I hoep thy kindnesse Will doe that for me, which thy sword refuseth: Love thy Hermione, she deserves it friend: Leave me alone a while. Your griefe's too great for me to trust your life with't: I dare not venture you beyond my helpe. Within. Where's Prince Lysicles? where's Prince Lysicles? Hearke, I am cal'd, the fatall newes is come. Fie; how unmanly's this? Can sounds affright you, Which yet you know not whether they doe bring Or joyes, or sorrowes? when remedies are despair'd of, You have still leave to dye; perhaps she lives, And youle exhale her soule into your wounds, And be the death of her you mourne for living. Within. Where's Prince Lysicles? where's Prince Lysicles? It is the voyce of comfort, none would strive To be a sad relator; Ile call him, holla, here he is. The strange Lady kisses your hands, my Lord: Arnaldo Has restor'd her; she bad me say, your sight can onely Give perfection to what he has begunne. Will you dye now? Softly, good friend, gently let it slide Into my breast; my hearts too narrow yet To take so full a joy in: You're sure this newes is true? On my Life. Why should you doubt it? My comforts ever were like Winter Sunnes, That rise late, and set betimes, set with thicke Clouds That hide their light at noone: but be this true, And I have life enough to let me see it: I shall be ever happy. So, 'tis well, at length his hope hath taught despaire to feare. Madam, my innocence will plead my pardon; I could Not ghesse for whom my Lord intended it; the truth is, I feard, considering his deepe melancholy, he Intended to use it on himselfe, and therefore meant to Make him out of love with death, by suffering the paines Our soules doe feele when they are violenc'd from us. I had provided Antidotes, but could not, till this houre, Learne on whom it was imployed: sure I was, it could Be death to none, though full of torment.