The Night Walker, or The Little Thief · chunk 29 of 39
Fletcher, John / Shirley, James · published 1640 · first performed or written c.1611(?) [revised by Shirley and re-licensed for stage, May 11, 1633] (Annals) comedy · Lady Elizabeth's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 511 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
The cold, the cold I cry, and I cry truly, Not one sleeve, nor a cape of a cloak to warm me. What miserable fools were we? We had e'en best, gentlemen, Every man choose his rope again, and fasten it, Aud take a short turne to a better fortune To be bawds to our miseries, and put our own lights out? Prithee Sexton let's have a fire at thy house, A good fire, we'll pay thee some way for't, I am stone cold. Alas I pity you, come quickly gentlemen. Sure I ha' been in a dream, I had no mistress, Nor gold, nor clothes, but am a ringing rascal. Fellows in affliction, let's take hands all, Now are we fit for tumblers. So, so, presently his sleep will leave him. And wonder seize upon him, Bid 'em within be ready. What sound's this? What horrid din? what dismal place is this? I never saw before, and now behold it; But by the half light of a lamp, that burns here: My spirits shake, tremble through my body; Help, help, Mercy, protect me, my soul quakes, What dreadful apparitions! how I shudder! Algripe. What are you? We are hellhounds hellhounds, that have commission From the Prince of darkness, To fetch thy black soul to him. Am I not alive still? Thou art, but we have brought thee instruments Will quickly rid thy miserable life, Stab, Poison. Hang thyself, this choice is offered Thou canst not hope for heaven; thy base soul is Lost to all hope of mercy. Quickly, quickly. The torments cool And all the Fiends expect thee. Come with us to that pit of endless horror, Or we will force thee. Oh, oh oh. Groans are too late, sooner the ravisher, Whose soul is hurled into eternal frost, Stung with the force of twenty thousand Winters To punish the distempers of his blood, Shall hope to get from thence, than thou avoid The certainty of meeting hell where he is. Shall murderers be there for ever dying, Their souls shot through with adders, torn on Engines, Dying as many deaths for killing one, Could any imagination number them, As there be moments in eternity: And shall that Justice spare thee, that hast slain, Murdered by thy extortion so many? Oh, oh. Do execution quickly, or we'll carry thee alive to hell. Gently, gentle devils, do not force me To kill myself, nor do not you do't for me; Oh let me live, I'll make amends for all. Tell us of thy repentance? perjured villain, Pinch off his flesh, he must be whipped, salted and whipped. Oh misery of miseries! Tear his accursed limbs, to hell with him, ha. A mischief on that innocent face, away. Malicious furies hence, choke not the seeds Of holy penitence. This must be an Angel, How at his presence the fiends crawl away! Here is some light of mercy. Be thou wise, And entertain it, wretched, wretched man; What poor defence hath all thy wealth been to thee? What says thy conscience now?
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)
The cold, the cold I cry, and I cry truely, Not one sleeve, nor a cape of a cloake to warme me. What miserable fooles were we? We had e'en best, gentlemen, Every man chuse his rope againe, and fasten it, Aud take a short turne to a better fortune To be bauds to our miseries, and put our owne lights out? Preethee Sexton lets have a fire at thy house, A good fire, weele pay thee some way for't, I am stone cold. Alas I pitty you, come quickly gentlemen. Sure I ha beene in a dreame, I had no mistresse, Nor gold, nor cloathes, but am a ringing rascall. Fellowes in affliction, lets take hands all, Now are we fit for tumblers. So, so, presently his sleepe will leave him. And wonder seize upon him, Bid 'em within be ready. What sound's this? What horrid dinne? what dismall place is this? I never saw before, and now behold it; But by the halfe light of a lampe, that burnes here: My spirits shake, tremble through my body; Helpe, helpe, Mercy, protect me, my soule quakes, What dreadfull apparitions! how I shudder! Algripe. What are you? We are helhounds helhounds, that have commission From the Prince of darkenesse, To fetch thy blacke soule to him. Am I not alive still? Thou art, but we have brought thee instruments Will quickly rid thy miserable life, Stabbe, Poyson. Hang thy selfe, this choyse is offer'd Thou canst not hope for heaven; thy base soule is Lost to all hope of mercy. Quickly, quickly. The torments coole And all the Fiends expect thee. Come with us to that pit of endlesse horrour, Or we will force thee. Oh, oh oh. Grones are too late, sooner the ravisher, Whose soule is hurl'd into eternall frost, Stung with the force of twenty thousand Winters To punish the distempers of his blood, Shall hope to get from thence, then thou avoid The certaintie of meeting hell where he is. Shall murderers be there for ever dying, Their soules shot through with adders, torne on Engines, Dying as many deaths for killing one, Could any imagination number them, As there be moments in eternity: And shall that Justice spare thee, that hast slaine, Murdered by thy extortion so many? Oh, oh. Doe execution quickly, or weele carry thee alive to hell. Gently, gentle devills, doe not force me To kill my selfe, nor doe not you do't for me; Oh let me live, Ile make amends for all. Tell us of thy repentance? perjur'd villaine, Pinch off his flesh, he must be whipt, salted and whipt. Oh misery of miseries! Teare his accursed limbs, to hell with him, ha. A mischiefe on that innocent face, away. Malicious furies hence, choake not the seedes Of holy penitence. This must be an Angell, How at his presence the fiends crawle away! Here is some light of mercy. Be thou wise, And entertaine it, wretched, wretched man; What poore defence hath all thy wealth beene to thee? What sayes thy conscience now?