Dekker, Thomas / Middleton, Thomas · published 1639 · first performed or written 1639 [c.1617-1639] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Anne's Men (?) unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Why so; I like one that will make an end of himself at few words; A man that hath a quick perseverance in ill: A leaping spirit; he'll run through horrors jaws To catch a sin; but to o'ertake a virtue He softly paces, like a man that's sent Some tedious dark, unprofitable journey. Corrupt is nature, she loves nothing more Than what she most should hate, there's nothing springs Apace in man but grey hairs, cares, and sins. I'll see her come what can; but what can prove? She cannot seek my death, that seeks my love. My Lord, what is the matter? I know not what; The King sent. Well, we obey. Here comes his Highness. How now what's she? I my Lord? Your Highness knew me once, your most obedient Daughter. They lie that tell me so, this is not she. No, my Lord? No, for as thou art I know thee not, And I shall strive still to forget thee more; Thou neither bear'st in memory my respects Nor thy own worths; how can we think of thee But as of a dejected worthless creature? So far beneath our grace and thy own luster, that we disdain to know thee. Was there no choice 'mong our selected Nobles To make thy favourite besides Tymethes? Son to our enemy, a wretch, a Beggar? Dead to all fortunes, honours, or their hopes, Besides his breath, worth nothing; abject wretch, To place thy affection so vigorously On him can ne'er requite it; deny't not, We know the favours thou hast given him, Pledges of love, close letters, private meetings, And whisperings are customary 'twixt you. Come, which be his gifts? whereabout lie his pledges? Your Grace hath been injuriously informed, I ne'er received pledge. Impudent creature, When in our sight and hearing shamefully undervaluing thy best honours And setting by all modesty of blood thou bēg'dst a jewel of him. Oh pardon men my Lord, I had forgot, here 'tis, That is the same, and all that ere was his. Ha! this! how came this hither? I gave it you my Lord. Who gave it thee? Tymethes. He! who gave it him? I know not that my Lord. Then here it sticks, Mazeres! My Lord! 'tis my queens, my Queens, Mazeres. How to him came this? I can resolve your highness. Can Mazeres? He is some Ape, the husk falls from him now, And you shall know his inside: he's a villain, A Traitor to the pleasures of your Bed. Oh, I shall burst with torment. He's received this night Into her bosom. I feel a whirl wind in me Ready to tear the frame of my mortality. I traced him to the deed. And saw it done? I abused my eyes in the true survey of't, Tainted my hearing with lascivious sounds; My loyalty did prompt me to be sure Of what I found so wicked and impure. 'tis spring tide in my Gall, all my blood's bitter, Puh, lungs too. This night. Lodovico. My Lord. How cam'st thou up? let's hear.
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)
Why so; I like one that will make an end of himselfe at few words; A man that hath a quicke perseverance in ill: A leaping spirit; hee'le run through horrors jawes To catch a sin; but to oretake a vertue He softly paces, like a man that's sent Some tedious darke, unprofitable journey. Corrupt is nature, she loves nothing more Than what she most should hate, there's nothing springs Apace in man but gray haires, cares, and sinnes. Ile see her come what can; but what can prove? She cannot seeke my death, that seekes my love. My Lord, what is the matter? I know not what; The King sent. Well, we obey. Here comes his Highnesse. How now what's she? I my Lord? Your Highnesse knew me once, your most obedient Daughter. They lye that tell me so, this is not she. No, my Lord? No, for as thou art I know thee not, And I shall strive still to forget thee more; Thou neither bearst in memory my respects Nor thy owne worthes; how can we thinke of thee But as of a dejected worthlesse creature? So farre beneath our grace and thy owne luster, that we disdaine to know thee. Was there no choyse mong our selected Nobles To make thy favorite besides Tymethes? Sonne to our enemie, a wretch, a Begger? Dead to all fortunes, honours, or their hopes, Besides his breath, worth nothing; abject wretch, To place thy affection so vigorously On him can nere requite it; deny't not, We know the favours thou hast given him, Pledges of lovē, close letters, private meetings, And whisperings are customary twixt you. Come, which be his gifts? whereabout lye his pledgēs? Your Grace hath beene injuriously inform'd, I nere receiv'd pledge. Impudent creature, When in our sight and hearing shamefully undervaluing thy best honours And setting by all modesty of blood thou bēg'dst a Iewell of him. Oh pardon mē my Lord, I had forgot, here 'tis, That is the same, and all that ere was his. Ha! this! how came this hither? I gave it you my Lord. Who gave it thee? Tymethes. He! who gave it him? I know not that my Lord. Then here it stickes, Mazeres! My Lord! Tis my Queenes, my Queenes, Mazeres. How to him came this? I can resolve your highnesse. Can Mazeres? He is some Ape, the huske falls from him now, And you shall know his inside: he's a villaine, A Traytor to the pleasures of your Bed. Oh, I shall burst with torment. He's receiv'd this night Into her bosome. I feele a whirle wind in me Ready to teare the frame of my mortality. I trac'd him to the deed. And saw it done? I abus'd my eyes in the true survey of't, Tainted my hearing with lascivious sounds; My loyalty did prompt me to be sure Of what I found so wicked and impure. Tis spring tyde in my Gall, all my blood's bitter, Puh, lungs too. This night. Lodovico. My Lord. How cam'st thou up? lets hearē.