The Bloody Brother (Rollo, Duke of Normandy) · chunk 9 of 39
Fletcher, John / Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip · published 1640 · first performed or written 1617 [revised 1627-1630] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T39 Profit, conscience and dishonest dealing typicality 0.76 · 478 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T39: conscience, lucre, usury, lucar, fraud, dissimulation, simony, london, lady, nemo.
Conscience Latorch? what's that? A tear they tie up fools in: nature's coward, Tasting the blood and chilling the full spirits With apprehension of mere clouds and shadows. I know no conscience, nor I fear no shadows. Or if you did, if there were conscience, If the free soul could suffer The fiery mind, such puddle to put it out, Must it needs like a rank vine run up rudely, And twine about the top of all our happiness Honour and rule, and there sit shaking of us? It shall not nor it must not: I am satisfied, And once more am myself again. My mother's tears and womanish cold prayers Farewell, I have forgot ye. If there be conscience, Let it not come betwixt a Crown and me, Which is my hope of bliss, and I believe it Otto, our friendship thus I blow to air A bubble for a boy to play withal, And all the vows my weakness made like this, Like this poor heartless rush, I rend a pieces. Now you go right Sir, now your eyes are open. My Father's last petition's dead, as he is, And all the promises I closed his eyes with, In the same grave I bury. Now you are a man Sir. Otto thou showst my winding sheet before me, Which ere I put it on, like heavens blessed fire In my descent i'll make it blush in blood. A crown, a crown, o sacred rule now fire me, Nor shall the pity of thy youth false brother, Although a thousand Virgins kneel before me, And every dropping eye a Court of mercy, The same blood with me, nor the reverence Due to my Mother's blessed womb, that bred us Redeem thee from my doubts: thou art a wolf here Fed with my fears, and I must cut thee from me, A crown, a crown, o sacred rule now fire me, No safety else. But be not too much stirred Sir, Nor too high in your execution; swallowing waters Run deep and silent till they are satisfied, And smile in thousand curls, to guild their craft, Let your sword sleep, and let my two-edged wit work. This happy feast, the full joy of your friendship shall be his last. How my Latorch? Why thus Sir. I'll presently go dive into the Officers That minister at Table, gold and goodness With promise upon promise, and time necessary I'll pour into 'em. Canst thou do it neatly? Let me alone and such a bait it shall be Shall take off all suspicion. Go and prosper. Walk in then and your smoothest face put on Sir. A hot day, a hot day, vengeance hot boys, Give me some drink; this fire's a plaguy fretter. Body a me I am dry still, give me the Iack boy, This wooden skiff holds nothing.
Fletcher, John / Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip
Publication year (edition)
1640
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 1115 · TCP A00959 · DEEP 936
Edition role
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 544–604 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 9 of 39 in this edition
Length
478 words · 598 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T39 — Profit, conscience and dishonest dealingcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.761 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
Conscience Latorch? what's that? A teare they tye up fooles in: natures coward, Tasting the bloud and chilling the full spirits With apprehension of meere cloudes and shadowes. I know no conscience, nor I feare no shadowes. Or if you did, if there were conscience, If the free soule could suffer The fiery minde, such puddle to put it out, Must it needs like a rank vine run up rudely, And twine about the top of all our happinesse Honour and rule, and there sit shaking of us? It shall not nor it must not: I am satisfied, And once more am my selfe againe. My mothers teares and womanish cold prayers Farewell, I have forgot yee. If there be conscience, Let it not come betwixt a Crowne and me, Which is my hope of blisse, and I believe it Otto, our friendship thus I blowe to ayre A bubble for a boy to play withall, And all the vowes my weaknesse made like this, Like this poore heartlesse rush, I rend a peeces. Now you goe right Sir, now your eyes are open. My Fathers last petition's dead, as he is, And all the promises I clos'd his eyes with, In the same grave I bury. Now you are a man Sir. Otto thou shewst my winding sheet before me, Which ere I put it on, like heavens blest fire In my descent ile make it blush in bloud. A crowne, a crowne, ô sacred rule now fire me, Nor shall the pitty of thy youth false brother, Although a thousand Virgins kneele before me And every dropping eye a Court of mercy, The same bloud with me, nor the reverence Due to my Mothers blessed wombe, that bred us Redeem thee from my doubts: thou art a woolfe here Fed with my feares, and I must cut thee from me, A crowne, a crowne, ô sacred rule now fire me, No safety else. But be not too much stirr'd Sir, Nor too high in your execution; swallowing waters Run deep and silent till they are satisfied, And smile in thousand curles, to guild their craft, Let your sword sleep, and let my two-edg'd wit work. This happy feast, the full joy of your friendship shall be his last. How my Latorch? Why thus Sir. Ile presently goe dive into the Officers That minister at Table, gold and goodnesse With promise upon promise, and time necessary Ile poure into 'em. Canst thou doe it neatly? Let me alone and such a bait it shall be Shall take off all suspition. Goe and prosper. Walk in then and your smoothest face put on Sir. A hot day, a hot day, vengeance hot boyes, Give me some drink; this fire's a plaguy fretter. Body a me I am dry still, give me the Iack boy, This wooden skiffe holds nothing.