The Bloody Brother (Rollo, Duke of Normandy) · chunk 18 of 39
Fletcher, John / Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip · published 1639 · first performed or written 1617 [revised 1627-1630] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.79 · 489 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Pour lives before him, till his own be dry Of all lives services and humane comforts: None left that looks at heaven is half so base To do those black and hellish actions grace. Haste Latorche And raise the City as the Court is raised Proclaiming the abhorred conspiracy In plot against my life. I haste my Lord. You there that mourn upon the justly slain, Arise and leave it if you love your lives, And hear from me what (kept by you) may save you. What will the Butcher do? I will not stir. Stir, and unforced stir, or stir never more: Command her, you grave Beldame, that know better My deadly resolutions, since I drew them From the infective fountain of your own, Or if you have forgot, this fiery prompter Shall fix the fresh impression on your heart. Rise daughter, serve his will in what we may Lest what we may not he enforce the rather, Is this all you command us? This addition only admitted, that when I endeavour To quit me of this slaughter you presume not To cross me with a syllable for your souls; Murmur, nor think against it, but weigh well, It will not help your ill, but help to more, And that my hand wrought thus far to my will, Will check at nothing till his circle fill. Fill it, so I consent not, but who soothes it Consents, and who consents to tyranny, does it. False traitress die then with him. Are you mad, to offer at more blood, and make yourself More horrid to your people? I'll proclaim, It is not as your instrument will publish. Do, and take that along with you— so nimble, Resign my sword, and dare not for thy soul To offer what thou insolently threatnest; One word, proclaiming cross to what Latorche Hath in Commission, and intends to publish. Well sir, not for your threats, but for your good, Since more hurt to you would more hurt your country, And that you must make virtue of the need That now compels you, I'll consent as far As silence argues to your will proclaimed: And since no more sons of your Princely father Survives to rule but you, and that I wish You should rule like your father, with the love And zeal of all your subjects; this foul slaughter That now you have committed made ashamed With that fair blessing, that in place of plagues, Heavenlies our mending disposition, which Take here your sword, which now use like a Prince, And no more like a Tyrant. This sounds well, live and be gracious with us. Oh Lord Aubrey. He flatters thus? He temporises fitly. Wonder invades me; do you two think much, That he thus wisely, and with need consents To what I author for your Country's good? You being my Tutor, you my Chancellor. Your Chancellor, is not not your Flatterer Sir.
Fletcher, John / Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip
Publication year (edition)
1639
First performance / composition (Annals)
1617 [revised 1627-1630]
First performance (BritDrama)
1617 [1617-1620]
Company (BritDrama)
King's Men
Genre (British Drama)
tragedy
Play type
Adult Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 1114 · TCP A00958 · DEEP 935
Edition role
Representative edition — used in the analysis
Position
nodes 1095–1157 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 18 of 39 in this edition
Length
489 words · 620 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.790 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Poure lives before him, till his owne be dry Of all lives services and humaine comforts: None left that lookes at heaven is halfe so base To doe those blacke and hellish actions grace. Haste Latorche And raise the Cittie as the Court is raised Proclaiming the abhor'd conspiracy In plot against my life. I haste my Lord. You there that mourne upon the justly slaine, Arise and leave it if you love your lives, And heare from me what (kept by you) may save you. What will the Butcher doe? I will not stirre. Stirre, and unforc't stirre, or stirre never more: Command her, you grave Beldame, that know better My deadly resolutions, since I drew them From the infective fountaine of your owne, Or if you have forgot, this fiery prompter Shall fixe the fresh impression on your heart. Rise daughter, serve his will in what we may Least what we may not he enforce the rather, Is this all you command us? This addition onely admitted, that when I endeavour To quit me of this slaughter you persume not To crosse me with a syllable for your soules; Murmure, nor thinke against it, but weigh well, It will not helpe your ill, but helpe to more, And that my hand wrought thus farre to my will, Wil checke at nothing till his circle fill. Fill it, so I consent not, but who soothes it Consents, and who consents to tyrannie, does it. False traytresse die then with him. Are you mad, to offer at more blood, and make your self More horrid to your people? Ile proclaime, It is not as your instrument will publish. Doe, and take that along with you —so nimble, Resigne my sword, and dare not for thy soule To offer what thou insolently threatnest; One word, proclaiming crosse to what Latorch Hath in Commission and intends to publish. Well sir, not for your threats, but for your good, Since more hurt to you would more hurt your countrey, And that you must make vertue of the neede That now compells you, Ile consent as farre As silence argues to your will proclaimed: And since no more sonnes of your Princely father Survives to rule but you, and that I wish You should rule like your father, with the love And zeale of all your subjects; this foule slaughter That now you have committed made ashamed With that faire blessing, that in place of plagues, Heavenies our meing disposition, which Take here your sword, which now use like a Prince, And no more like a Tyrant. This sounds well, live and be gracious with us. Oh Lord Aubrey. He flatters thus? He temporizes fitly. Wonder invades me doe you two thinke much, That he thus wisely, and with neede consents To what I author for your Countries good? You being my Tutor, you my Chancellour. Your Chancellour, is not not your Flatterer ir.