Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Then there is hope to find compassion In more than Scythian breasts, there's but that left To expiate your former cruelty. O spare their lives, and all shall be forgiven! We are too far embarked to hope or wish To be forgiven, mischief's upheld by mischief. Alas poor souls, what crime have they committed? They are both thine Imperial, that's their crime, And 'tis the height of our triumphant glory, That thou shalt see 'em die, cast thine eyes up. Villain, I will not, thus I snatch away That part of thy revengeful insolence, pulls out his eyes. So shall the Sun and Moon, heaven's rolling eyes, Drop from their spheres at the world's general ruin, T' avoid the spectacle, 'tis fit my light Should be extinguished with my dearest objects. What? hast thou so deluded us? thine ears Although thou want'st eyes to see, shall hear their groans. Oh, oh! Ang. Oh, oh! I would have laboured more for this revenge, Than those that search the bowels of the earth For Mines, or dive into the Sea for pearls. WHose fortune should I envy? that am going To take possession of a happiness, Great, and (what crowns felicity) secure? Such constant joy proceeds from virtuous love: But soft, what unexpected change is here? Either mine eyes mistake, or my Imperial Is quite deprived of his; alas, 'tis so: I am amazed at this sad spectacle. There can be none but young Prince Doria left, So apprehensive of my misery. What strange Eclipse? or dire Stymphalides With their prodigious wings obscure the sun? What cruel hand hath made us all thus wretched? What thou beholdest, is the least part of mine, And thine own woe. Where's my Angelica? She and her mother both are vilely murdered; And that's not all, they both were ravished first By those two savage beasts. 'Tis thy fate Doria To be involved in that man's vowed destruction. Where am I now, in fruitful Italy, Or in Hyrcania, where there's nothing seen But horrid monsters, and perpetual snow? O wickedness! that no age will believe! And all Posterity deny! malicious fate, That to my boundless misery add'st this; To make me suffer barbarous wrongs from such As are not capable of my revenge. Were the sole Monarch of the world, the actor, Or had he but connived at the deed done By his lustful son or minion; I might hope, Armed with the justice of my cause, to wrest The ill-swayed sceptre from him, and reduce Him and his race to unparalleled examples Of woeful pride, and miserable greatness. Then if abstracted spirits knowledge have Of humane vows, look down deflowered Maid, But yet no less a Virgin than a Vestal: Since honour cannot stoop to punish slaves, Whose vile condition sinks beneath that vengeance, 'Bove which no tyrant's power could hope to climb. And since thy cruel sufferings (blessed soul) Require strict satisfaction, lo, I turn My fury on myself, and punish thus Mine own malignant fortune: who holds me? Forbear, I may not be disarmed.
nodes 1751–1819 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 26 of 28 in this edition
Length
511 words · 697 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.789 (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)
Then there is hope to finde compaſſion In more then Scythian breaſts, ther's but that left To expiate your former cruelty. O ſpare their lives, and all ſhall be forgiven! We are too farre embark't to hope or wiſh To be forgiven, miſchief's upheld by miſchiefe. Alas poor ſoules, what crime have they committed? They are both thine Imperial, that's their crime, And 'tis the height of our triumphant glory, That thou ſhalt ſee u'm dye, caſt thine eyes up. Villaine, I will not, thus I ſnatch away That part of thy revengefull inſolence, puls out his eyes. So ſhall the Sun and Moon, heavens rowling eyes, Drop from their ſpheres at the worlds generall ruine, T' avoyd the ſpectacle, 'tis fit my light Should be extinguiſh't with my deareſt objects. hat? haſt thou ſo deluded us? thine eares ough thou want'ſt eyes to ſee, ſhall hear their groanes▪ Oh, oh! Ang. Oh, oh! I would have labour'd more for this revenge, Than thoſe that ſearch the bowels of the earth For Mynes, or dive into the Sea for pearles. VVHoſe fortune ſhould I envy? that am going To take poſſeſſion of a happineſſe, Great, and (what crownes felicity) ſecure? Such conſtant joy proceeds from vertuous love: But ſoft, what unexpected change is here? Either mine eyes miſtake, or my Imperial Is quite depriv'd of his; alas, 'tis ſo: I am amaz'd at this ſad ſpectacle. There can be none but yong Prince Doria left, So apprehenſive of my miſery. What ſtrange Eclipſe? or dire Stymphalides With their prodigious wings obſcure the ſun? What cruell hand hath made us all thus wretched? What thou behold'ſt, is the leaſt part of mine, And thine owne woe. Where's my Angelica? She and her mother both are viſely murdered; And that's not all, they both were raviſh't firſt By thoſe two ſavage beaſts. 'Tis thy fate Doria To be involv'd in that mans vow'd deſtruction. Where am I now, in fruitfull Italy, Or in Hircania, where there's nothing ſeene But horrid monſters, and perpetuall ſnow? O wickedneſſe! that no age will beleeve! And all Poſterity deny! malitious fate, That to my boundleſſe miſery add'ſt this; To make me ſuffer barbarous wrongs from ſuch As are not capable of my revenge. Were the ſole Monarch of the world, the actor, Or had he but conniv'd at the deed done By his luſtfull ſonne or minion; I might hope, Arm'd with the juſtice of my cauſe, to wreſt The ill-ſway'd ſcepter from him, and reduce Him and his race to unparrallel'd examples Of wofull pride, and miſerable greatneſſe. Then if abſtracted ſpirits knowledge have Of humane vowes, look down deflowred Mayd, But yet no leſſe a Virgin then a Veſtall: Since honour cannot ſtoop to puniſh ſlaves, Whoſe vile condition ſinks beneath that vengeance, 'Bove which no tyrants power could hope to clime. And ſince thy cruell ſufferings (bleſt ſoule) Require ſtrict ſatisfaction, loe, I turne My fury on my ſelfe, and puniſh thus Mine owne malignant fortune: who holds me? Forbeare, I may not be diſarm'd.