Cartwright, William · published 1639 · first performed or written 1636 [Aug 30] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T17 Eastern conquest: Persians, Turks and so · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T17: tamburlaine, persian, cyrus, king, mahomet, arms, mighty, assyrian, thousand, army.
Most virtuous Sir, you may expect perhaps Atossa's breast grown strange, and wrested from Her wonted faith; but witness O thou Sun, Whom with a pious eye I now behold, That I have neither tried t'untie, or loosen That sacred knot: but what I've condescended To aid thus far, is only a fair likeness Of something that I love in you. If then Your Loyalty be still entire to me, Show it, and yield Cratander up to us. As his designs are honourable, so Are our intents, with which there needs must stand A resoluteness: it cannot be Virtue, unless't be constant too. Th' approach o'th' Enemy Forbids me to say more: On to your Victory, Your wonted art to Conquer; they're the Relics Of a few scattered troops, the fragments of The last meal that your swords made; on, and when You have subdued them wholly, we will plant Fresh bays upon your brows, and seal unto you A peace, as everlasting as our Loves. within. Arm, arm, arm, arm. Mithra and Victory. Let us be resolute now my Ladies, and At their return show them that they have something Left yet to Conquer; Breasts, that are not shaken With their loud noise of Trumpets. See, they're coming This was a Race, no Battle; Let's prepare. WHat? fly upon the sight of us? to'o'appear Was here to overcome, a look hath done The business of the sword; your fears may sleep Securely now; Open the Castle gates. But you must grant us some Conditions first. Must we be Articled with by our women? What is't an't please the Gods, that you require? Cratander's life. It is not in your Power To grant it great Arsamnes: your Queen speaks Out of a tender pity to no purpose. Hear me Arsamnes: whom the raging sword Hath spared, why should the peaceable destroy? All hate's not ended in the field, I see: There's something still more cruel after war. Alas! you know not what you ask; the Gods Permit not that he live; he falls to them. You must not hear her, Sir, against the Gods, Who now expect their solemn Feast and Banquet. If they are Gods, pity's a Banquet to 'em. whene'er the Innocent and Virtuous Doth escape death, then is their Festival. Nectar ne'er flows more largely, then when blood's Not spilled, that should be saved. Do y'thinkthinke the smoke Of humane entrails is a steam that can Delight the Deities? whoe'er did burn, The Building to the honour of the Architect? Or break the Tablet in the painter's praise? 'Tis Mercy is the Sacrifice they like. Let not Affection call a Curse upon you, While you permit it to take place of your Religion. See, he will not live Atossa; To do the unwilling man a courtesy Is but a specious Tyranny. Alas! He would be near the Gods, he would leave us. You must not, shall not kill him, my Arsamnes. Speak Ariene, call to him Mandane.
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)
Most vertuous Sir, you may expect perhaps Atossa's breast growne strange, and wrested from Her wonted faith; but witnesse O thou Sun, Whom with a pious eye I now behold, That I have neither try'd t'unty, or loosen That sacred knot: but what I've condescended To ayde thus farre, is only a faire likenesse Of something that I love in you. If then Your Loyalty be still intire to me, Shew it, and yeeld Cratander up to us. As his designes are honourable, so Are our intents, with which there needes must stand A resolutenesse: it cannot be Vertue, Unles't be constant too. Th' approach o'th' Enemy Forbids me to say more: On to your Victory, Your wonted art to Conquer; they're the Reliques Of a few scatter'd troopes, the fragments of The last meale that your swords made; on, and when You have subdu'd them wholly, we will plant Fresh Bayes upon your browes, and seale unto you A peace, as everlasting as our Loves. within. Arme, arme, arme, arme. Mithra and Victory. Let us be resolute now my Ladyes, and At their returne shew them that they have something Left yet to Conquer; Breasts, that are not shaken With their loud noyse of Trumpets. See, they're comming This was a Race, no Battle; Let's prepare. WHat? fly upon the sight of us? to'appeare Was here to overcome, a looke hath done The businesse of the sword; your feares may sleepe Securely now; Open the Castle gates. But you must grant us some Conditions first. Must we be Articled with by our women? What is't an't please the Gods, that you require? Cratanders life. It is not in your Pow'r To grant it great Arsamnes: your Queene speakes Out of a tender pitty to no purpose. Heare me Arsamnes: whom the raging sword Hath spar'd, why should the peaceable destroy? All hate's not ended in the field, I see: There's something still more cruell after warre. Alas! you know not what you aske; the Gods Permit not that he live; he falls to them. You must not heare her, Sir, against the Gods, Who now expect their solemne Feast and Banquet. If they are Gods, Pitty's a Banquet to 'em. When e're the Innocent and Vertuous Doth escape death, then is their Festivall. Nectar ne're flowes more largely, then when bloud's Not spilt, that should be sav'd. Do y'thinke the smoake Of humane Entralls is a steame that can Delight the Deities? Who e're did burne, The Building to the honour of the Architect? Or breake the Tablet in the Painters prayse? 'Tis Mercy is the Sacrifice they like. Let not Affection call a Curse upon you, While you permit it to take place of your Religion. See, he will not live Atossa; To doe the unwilling man a courtesie Is but a specious Tyranny. Alas! He would be neare the Gods, he would leave us. You must not, shall not kill him, my Arsamnes. Speake Ariene, call to him Mandane.