Randolph, Thomas · published 1638 · first performed or written 1630 [licensed for stage, Nov 25] (Annals) moral · King's Revels Company unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 461 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
I go, that want no worth to merit honour; 'Tis honour that wants worth to merit me. Fortune, thou arbitress of humane things Thy credit is at stake: if I but rise The World's opinion will conceive thoust eyes. These are the extremes of Meekness. Orgylus an angry quarrelsome man, moved with the least shadow, or appearance of Injury. The other in defect, Aorgus, a fellow so patient, or rather insensible of wrong, that he is not capable of the grossest abuse. Persuade me not, he has awaked a fury That carries steel about him. Daggs, and Pistols! To bite his thumb at me? Why should not any man By't his own thumb? At me? wear I a sword To see men bite their thumbs— Rapiers and Daggers!- He is the son of a Whore. That hurts not you. Had he bit yours, it had been some pretence T'have moved this anger— he may bite his own, And eat it too. Muskets, and Canons!-eate it? If he dare eat it in contempt of me, He shall eat something else too that rides here; I'll try his estridg stomach. Sir be patient. You lie in your throat, and I will not. To what purpose is this impertinent madness? Pray be milder. Your Mother was a whore, & I will not put it up. Why should so slight a toy thus trouble you? Your Father was hanged, and I will be revenged. When reason doth in equal balance poise The nature of two injuries, yours to me Lies heavy, when that other would not turn An even scale; and yet it moves not me; My Anger is not up. But I will raise it; You are a fool! I know it, and shall I Be angry for a truth? You are beside An arrant knave! So are my betters sir. I cannot move him— O my spleen!— it rises, For very anger I could eat my knuckles. You may, or bite your thumb all's one to me. You are a horned beast, a very Cuckold! 'Tis my wife's fault, not mine, I have no reason Then to be angry for another's fin. And I did graft your horns, you might have come And found us glued together like two goats; And stood a witness to your transformation. Why if I had, I am so far from anger I would have e'en fall'n down upon my knees, And desired heaven to have forgiven you both. Your Children are all bastards, not one of them, Upon my knowledge, of your own begetting. Why then I am the more beholding to them That they will call me father; it was lust Perchance, that did beget them, but I am sure 'Tis charity to keep the Infants.
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)
I goe, that want no worth to merit honour; 'Tis honour that wants worth to merit mee. Fortune, thou arbitresse of humane things Thy credit is at stake: if I but rise The Worlds opinion will conceive th'hast eyes. These are the extreams of Meeknesse. Orgylus an angry quarrelsome man, mov'd with the least shadow, or appearance of Iniury. The other in defect, Aorgus, a fellow so patient, or rather insensible of wrong, that he is not capable of the grossest abuse. Perswade me not, he has awak'd a fury That carries steele about him. Daggs, and Pistolls! To bite his thumb at me? Why should not any man Bite his own thumbe? At mee? weare I a sword To see men bite their thumbs—Rapiers and Daggers!- He is the sonne of a Whore. That hurts not you. Had he bit yours, it had been some pretence T'have mov'd this anger—he may bite his own, And eate it too. Muskets, and Canons!-eate it? If he dare eate it in contempt of me, He shall eate something else too that rides here; Ile try his estridg stomack. Sir be patient. You lye in your throat, and I will not. To what purpose is this impertinent madnesse? Pray be milder. Your Mother was a whore, & I will not put it up. Why should so slight a toye thus trouble you? Your Father was hang'd, and I will be reveng'd. When reason dorh in equall ballance poize The nature of two injuries, yours to me Lyes heavy, when that other would not turne An even scale; and yet it moves not mee; My Anger is not up. But I will raise it; You are a foole! I know it, and shall I Be angry for a truth? You are besides An arrant knave! So are my betters sir. I cannot move him—O my spleen!—it rises, For very anger I could eat my knuckles. You may, or bite your thumb all's one to mee. You are a horned beast, a very Cuckold! 'Tis my wives fault, not mine, I have no reason Then to be angry for anothers finne. And I did graft your horns, you might have come And found us glewd together like two goats; And stood a witnesse to your transformation. Why if I had, I am so farre from anger I would have e'ne falne down upon my knees, And desir'd heaven to have forgiven you both. Your Children are all bastards, not one of them, Vpon my knowledge, of your own begetting. Why then I am the more beholding to them That they will call me father; it was lust Perchance, that did beget them, but I am sure 'Tis charity to keepe the Infants.