Randolph, Thomas · published 1638 · first performed or written 1630 [licensed for stage, Nov 26] (Annals) pastoral · King's Revels Company · before the Court T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.83 · 487 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
What joy have I to live, That ne'er lived yet: the time that I have spent Since first I wept, then, when I first had entrance Into this world, this cold and sorrowful world, Was but a scene of sorrow; wretched I! Fatal to both my parents! For my birth Ruined my mother, and my death my father. O Tragic life! I either should have been Near borne, or ne'er have died. When I began To be, my sin began, why should it then Out live me? for, though now I cease to be, That still continues: Eyes, flow forth a pace, And be ashamed to see my wound run blood Faster than you drop tears— See, here he comes. His absence never until now I wished. My Conscience brings me back, the feet of guilt Go slow and dull, 'tis hard to run away From that we bear about us! The Murderer Is in this place, the issue of her blood Is stopped o'th' sudden. Cruel man, 'tis thou Hast done this bloody act, that will disgrace The story of our nation, and imprint So deep a blemish in the age we live in For savage Barbarism, that eternity Shall ne'er wear out: Pilumnus, on my knees I beg the justice of Sicilian laws Against this monster. Claius, 'tis your hate, And old revenge instructs you to accuse My Son: you would have fellows in your death, And to that purpose you pretend, I know not What mysteries of art! Speak Amaryllis ist not this wolf? Say, virgin, was it he? O, I am angry with my blood for stopping! This coward ebb against my will betrays me; The stream is turned, my eyes run faster now. Can you accuse my son? By Ceres, no; I have no heart to do it: does that face Look cruel? do those eyes sparkle with hate, Or malice? Tell me, Father, looks that brow As if it could but frown? Say, can you think 'tis possible Damon could have the heart To wound a Virgin? surely barbarous cruelty Dwells not in such a breast: mercy, and mildness, Courtesy, love, and sweetness breath in him, Not Anger, wrath, or murder; Damon was not Fed at a Thracian teat, Venus did send Her Doves to nurse him, and can he be cruel? Whence should he learn so much of barbarism As thus to wrong a Virgin? if he wound me 'tis only from his eyes, where loves blind God Whets his piled arrows; He beside, you know, Had never cause to wrong me, for he knows Always I loved him: Father, do not wrong An innocent; his soul is white, and pure, 'tis sin to think there lives a sin in him; Impiety to accuse him. In his looks He carries guilt, whose horror breeds this strange And obstinate silence: shame, and his conscience Will not permit him to deny it.
nodes 2419–2484 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 32 of 42 in this edition
Length
487 words · 639 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)
What joy have I to live, That nere liv'd yet: the time that I have spent Since first I wept, then, when I first had entrance Into this world, this cold and sorrowfull world, Was but a scene of sorrow; wretched I! Fatall to both my parents! For my birth Ruin'd my mother, and my death my father. O Tragick life! I either should have been Nere borne, or nere have died. When I began To be, my sinne began, why should it then Out live mee? for, though now I cease to be, That still continues: Eyes, flow forth a pace, And be asham'd to see my wound run blood Faster then you drop teares— See, here he comes. His absence never untill now I wisht. My Conscience brings me back, the feet of guilt Goe slow and dull, 'tis hard to run away From that we beare about us! The Murtherer Is in this place, the issue of her blood Is stop'd oth' sudden. Cruell man, 'tis thou Hast done this bloudy act, that will disgrace The story of our nation, and imprint So deepe a blemish in the age we live in For savage Barbarisme, that eternity Shall nere weare out: Pilumnus, on my knees I beg the justice of Sicilian lawes Against this monster. Claius, 'tis your hate, And old revenge instructs you to accuse My Sonne: you would have fellowes in your death, And to that purpose you pretend, I know not What mysteries of art! Speak Amaryllis I'st not this wolfe? Say, virgin, was it hee? O, I am angry with my blood for stopping! This coward ebbe against my will betraies mee; The streame is turn'd, my eyes run faster now. Can you accuse my sonne? By Ceres, no; I have no heart to doe it: does that face Look cruell? doe those eyes sparkle with hate, Or malice? Tell me, Father, lookes that brow As if it could but frowne? Say, can you thinke Tis possible Damon could have the heart To wound a Virgin? surely barbarous cruelty Dwels not in such a brest: mercy, and mildnesse, Courtesy, love, and sweetnesse breath in him, Not Anger, wrath, or murther; Damon was not Fed at a Thracian teat, Venus did send Her Doves to nurse him, and can he be cruell? Whence should he learne so much of barbarisme As thus to wrong a Virgin? if he wound mee Tis only from his eyes, where loves blind God Whets his pil'd arrowes; He besides, you know, Had never cause to wrong mee, for he knowes Alwaies I lov'd him: Father, doe not wrong An innocent; his soule is white, and pure, Tis sinne to thinke there lives a sinne in him; Impiety to accuse him. In his lookes He carries guilt, whose horror breeds this strange And obstinate silence: shame, and his conscience Will not permit him to deny it.