Chapman, George / Shirley, James · published 1639 · first performed or written 1612 [1611-1613; revised by Shirley and licensed for stage, Apr 29, 1635] (Annals) tragedy · Unknown · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 492 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Nay then— Although I like it not, I must obey. Welcome my injured servant, what a misery Ha' they made on thee? Though some change appear Upon my body, whose severe affliction Hath brought it thus to be sustained by others, My hurt is still the same in faith to you, Not broken with their rage. Alas poor man! Were all my joys essential, and so mighty As the affected world believes I taste, This object were enough to unsweeten all, Though in thy absence I had suffering, And felt within me a strong sympathy, While for my sake their cruelty did vex, And fright thy nerves with horror of thy sense, Yet in this spectacle I apprehend More grief than all my imagination Can let before into me; didst not curse me Upon the torture? Good my Lord, let not The thought of what I suffered dwell upon Your memory, they could not punish more Than what my duty did oblige to bear For you and justice, but there's some thing in Your looks, presents more fear than all the malice Of my tormentors could affect my soul with, That paleness, and the other forms you wear, Would well become a guilty Admiral, and one Lost to his hopes and honour, not the man Upon whose life the fury of unjustice Armed with fierce lightning, and the power of thunder, Can make no breach, I was not racked till now, There's more death in that falling eye, than all Rage ever yet brought forth, what accident sir can blast, Can be so black and fatal to distract The calm? the triumph that should sit upon Your noble brow, misfortune could have no Time to conspire with fate, since you were rescued By the great arm of providence, nor can Those garlands that now grow about your forehead With all the poison of the world be blasted. Allegre, thou dost bear thy wounds upon thee, In wide and spacious characters, but in The volume of my sadness thou dost want An eye to read an open force, hath torn Thy manly sinews which sometime may cure The engine is not seen that wounds thy Master, Past all the remedy of art or time, The flatteries of Court, of fame or honours, Thus in the Summer a tall flourishing tree, Transplanted by strong hand, with all her leaves And blooming pride upon her makes a show Of Spring, tempting the eye with wanton blossom, But not the Sun with all her amorous smiles, The dews of mornings, or the tears of night, Can root her fibers in the earth again, Or make her bosom kind, to growth and bearing, But the tree withers, and those very beams That once were natural warmth to her soft verdure Dry up her sap and shoot a fever through The bark and rind, till she becomes a burden To that which gave her life: so Chabot, Chabot.
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)
Nay then— Although I like it not, I muſt obey. Welcome my injur'd ſervant, what a miſery Ha they made on thee? Though ſome change appeare Vpon my body, whoſe ſevere affliction Hath brought it thus to be ſuſtained by others, My hurt is ſtill the ſame in faith to you, Not broken with their rage. Alas poore man! Were all my joyes eſſentiall, and ſo mighty As the affected world beleeves I taſte, This object were enough to unſweeten all, Though in thy abſence I had ſuffering, And felt within me a ſtrong ſympathy, While for my ſake their cruelty did vexe, And fright thy nerves with horrour of thy ſence, Yet in this ſpectacle I apprehend More griefe than all my imagination Could let before into me; didſt not curſe me Vpon the torture? Good my Lord, let not The thought of what I ſuffer'd dwell upon Your memory, they could not puniſh more Then what my duty did oblige to beare For you and Iuſtice, but theres ſome thing in Your lookes, preſents more feare than all the mallice Of my tormentors could affect my ſoule with, That paleneſſe, and the other formes you weare, Would well become a guilty Admirall, and one Loſt to his hopes and honour, not the man Vpon whoſe life the fury of unjuſtice Arm'd with fierce lightning, and the power of thunder, Can make no breach, I was not rack'd till now, Theres more death in that falling eye, than all Rage ever yet brought forth, what accident ſir can blaſt, Can be ſo blacke and fatall to diſtract The calme? the triumph that ſhould ſit upon Your noble brow, mifortune could have no Time to conſpire with fate, ſince you were reſcued By the great arme of providence, nor can Thoſe garlands that now grow about your forehead With all the poyſon of the world be blaſted. Allegre, thou doſt beare thy wounds upon thee, In wide and ſpacious characters, but in The volumne of my ſadneſſe thou doſt want An eye to reade an open force, hath torne Thy manly ſinewes which ſometime may cure The engine is not ſeene that wounds thy Maſter, Paſt all the remedy of art or time, The flatteries of Court, of fame or honours, Thus in the Sommer a tall flouriſhing tree, Tranſplanted by ſtrong hand, with all her leaves And blooming pride upon her makes a ſhew Of Spring, tempting the eye with wanton bloſſome, But not the Sunne with all her amorous ſmiles, The dewes of mornings, or the teares of night, Can roote her fibers in the earth agen, Or make her boſome kinde, to growth and bearing, But the tree withers, and thoſe very beames That once were naturall warmth to her ſoft verdure Dry up her ſap and ſhoote a feaver through The barke and rinde, till ſhe becomes a burthen To that which gave her life: ſo Chabot, Chabot.