Monsieur Thomas (Father's Own Son) · chunk 17 of 42
Fletcher, John · published 1639 · first performed or written 1615 [1610-c.1616] (Annals) comedy · Unknown · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 535 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Hold for heaven sake, Must my friend's misery make me a triumph? Bear I that noble name, to be a Traitor? O virtuous goodness, keep thyself untainted: You have no power to yield, nor he to render Nor I to take: I am resolved to die first. Ha'; sayst thou so? nay then thou shalt not perish. And though I love ye above the light shines on me, Beyond the wealth of Kingdoms, free content, Sooner would snatch at such a blessing offered Then at my pardoned life by the law forfeited, Yet, yet O noble beauty, yet O paradise For you are all the wonder revealed of it, Yet is a gratitude to be preserved A worthy gratitude to one most worthy. The name, and nobleness of friends. Pray tell me If I had never known that gentleman Would you not willingly embrace my offer? Do you make a doubt? And can ye be unwilling He being old and impotent: his aim too leveled at you, for your good? not constrained, But out of cure, and council? alas consider Play but the woman with me, and consider As he himself does, and I now dare see it Truly consider sir, what misery. For virtue's sake take heed. What loss of youth, What everlasting banishment from that Our years do only covet to arrive at Equal affections and shot together: What living name can dead age leave behind him What art of memory but fruitless doting? This cannot be. To you unless ye apply it With more and firmer faith, and so digest it I speak but of things possible, not done Nor like to be, a posset cures your sickness And yet I know ye grieve this; and howsoever The worthiness of Friend may make ye stagger Which is a fair thing in ye, yet my Patient, My gentle Patient, I would fain say more If you would understand. O cruel Woman. Yet sure your sickness is not so forgetful Nor you so willing to be lost. Pray stay there: Me thinks you are not fair now; me thinks more That modest, virtue, men delivered of you Shows but like shadow to me, thin, and fading. Excellent Friend. Ye have no share in goodness: Ye are belyde; you are not Cellide, The modest, unaculate: who are ye? For I will know: what devil to do mischief Unto my virtuous Friend, hath shifted shapes With that unblemished beauty. Do not rave Sir, Nor let the violence of thoughts distract ye, You shall enjoy me: I am yours: I pity By those fair eyes I do. O double hearted, O woman, perfect woman: what distraction Was meant to mankind when thou was't made a devil, What an invyting hell invented? tell me, And if you yet remember what is goodness, Tell me by that, and truth, can one so cherished So sainted in the soul of him, whose service Is almost turned to supperstition, Whose every day endeavours, and desires Offer themselves like incense on your altar, Whose heart holds no intelligence, but holy And most religious with his love; whose life (And let it ever be remembered Lady) Is drawn out only for your ends.
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)
Hold for heaven ſake, Muſt my friends miſery make me a triumph? Beare I that noble name, to be a Traitor? O vertuous goodnes, keepe thy ſelfe untainted: You have no power to yeeld, nor he to render Nor I to take: I am reſolv'd to die firſt. Ha; ſaiſt thou ſo? nay then thou ſhalt not periſh. And though I love ye above the light ſhines on me, Beyond the wealth of Kingdomes, free content, Sooner would ſnatch at ſuch a bleſſing offer'd Then at my pardon'd life by the law forfeited, Yet, yet O noble beauty, yet O paradiſe For you are all the wonder reveal'd of it, Yet is a gratitude to be preſerv'd A worthy gratitude to one moſt worthy. The name, and noblenes of friends. Pray tell me If I had never knowne that gentleman Would you not willingly embrace my offer? Do you make a doubt? And can ye be unwilling He being old and impotent: his aime too Levell'd at you, for your good? not conſtrain'd, But out of cure, and councell? alas conſider Play but the woman with me, and conſider As he himſelfe do's, and I now dare ſee it Truly conſider ſir, what miſery. For vertues ſake take heed. What loſſe of youth, What everlaſting baniſhment from that Our yeares doe only covet to arive at Equall affections and ſhot together: What living name can dead age leave behind him What art of memory but fruitleſſe doating? This cannot be. To you unleſſe ye apply it With more and firmer faith, and ſo digeſt it I ſpeake but of things poſſible, not done Nor like to be, a poſſet cures your ſickneſſe And yet I know ye grieve this; and howſoever The worthines of Friend may make ye ſtagger Which is a faire thing in ye, yet my Patient, My gentle Patient, I would faine ſay more If you would underſtand. O cruell Woman. Yet ſure your ſickneſſe is not ſo forgetfull Nor you ſo willing to be loſt. Pray ſtay there: Me thinks you are not faire now; me thinks more That modeſt, vertue, men delivered of you Shewes but like ſhadow to me, thin, and fading. Excellent Friend. Ye have no ſhare in goodneſſe: Ye are belyde; you are not Cellide, The modeſt, unaculate: who are ye? For I will know: what devill to do miſchiefe Vnto my vertuous Friend, hath ſhifted ſhapes With that unblemiſhed beauty. Do not rave Sir, Nor let the violence of thoughts diſtract ye, You ſhall enjoy me: I am yours: I pitty By thoſe faire eyes I do. O double hearted, O woman, perfect woman: what diſtraction Was meant to mankind when thou was't made a devill, What an invyting hell invented? tell me, And if you yet remember what i goodneſſe, Tell me by that, and truth, can one ſo cheriſh'd So ſainted in the ſoule of him, whoſe ſervice Is almoſt turn'd to ſupperſtition, Whoſe every day endeavours, and deſires Offer themſelves like incenſe on your altar, Whoſe heart holds no intlligence, but holy And moſt religious with his love; whoſe life (And let it ever be remembred Lady) Is drawne out only for your ends.