Richards, Nathaniel · published 1640 · first performed or written 1635 [1634-1636] (Annals) tragedy · King's Revels Company T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil typicality 0.81 · 538 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
MY brother gone to exile and I here, So near the Empress Court, the Court of shame, Where mischiefs hourly breed; how strange seems this, I have a will to follow, yet I want My will's performance; not that I am sick, Wanting, or limbs, or liberty; which begets More strange imaginations, yet all I can, Comes short to guess th'inscrutable meaning That thus detains me here, in vain, in vain▪ The more I strive my senses I confound, Then give it o'er, salute thy mother earth, And rest, rest while thy poor distracted mind Upon the wings of thought takes flight and fly Fly to the Island of Corcyra there, Learn the soul's comfort sweet Philosophy, What infinite good 'tis to contemplate heaven, For to that end the life of man is given. Prove prosperous my design upon this Brother to the banished Seneca, Are you caught Sir? Ha, villain what art thou. A murderer and villain, O Sir, 'Tis the best thriving trade and best employed 'Gainst such malevolent Satirists as you. You that are all for virtue, a mere word, When indeed there's no such thing; say there be None truly loves it but dies beggarly. Slave, rather dispatch me then torment my soul With thy envenomed scoffs 'gainst that that is Most rare, most excellent. A little more, And then I'll speed you, excellent Ladies Cannot disable with a charming spell, (A trick of wit, a humour that they have) Husbands they not affect; making free way For Atlas' backs to leap their lovely laps, But your Satirical censure straight must pass, Th'ones pride's scab-hammed Rascals, and the 〈◊〉 mischief's venereal Trulls; these are fine terms, Pray who made you a censurer of manners. O slave, T'upbraid such eminent persons What madness durst the like, deserv'st not death, Yes, yet your life is safe, pass but your vow T'embrace a beauty I shall bring you to, (More delicate than was the Spartan Queen) One that shall pay large tribute night by night, Give thee thy weight in gold for each delight. Not I, I yield my body mercenary slave To lust and lucre, no, though mines of gold She could give oftener than those whorish looks Women take pride in, to bewitch men's souls; First parched to Cinders, 'gainst the burning Zone, Be buried quick▪ all torments possible, (Stretched on the Tenters of invention) I gladly would (most willingly) endure ere thy soul killing proffers enters here. No? Pish, for my death, there's too much man in me To fear so sleight a scratch; let it come, I will no budge a foot; strike fair and home, 'tis better die then live to live unjust, Slave to th'unsounded Sea of woman's lust. Are you so confident, have at you Sir, Your love, your love, 'tis only that I seek I am no villain, though I seemed in show But one that fearful in these dangerous times For to retain a friend; led on by hope Of your fair life, whom envy in your foes Reports no less of; caused me through disguise, To put to trial your unvalued worth, Which beyond man I find of such pure mould, Sunlike your virtues outshine purest gold.
seed 43: T37 · seed 44: T36 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
MY brother gone to exile and I here, So neare the Empresse Court, the Court of shame, Where mischiefes hourely breed; how strange seemes this, I have a will to follow, yet I want My wills performance; not that I am sicke, Wanting, or limbes, or libertie; which begets More strange immaginations, yet all I can, Comes short to guesse th'inscrutable meaning That thus deteines me here, in vaine, in vaine The more I strive my senses I confound, Then give it o're, salute thy mother earth, And rest, rest while thy poore distracted minde Vpon the wings of thought takes flight and flie Fly to the Iland of Coryra there, Learne the soules comfort sweete Philosophy, What infinite good 'tis to contemplate heaven, For to that end the life of man is given. Prove prosperous my designe upon this Brother to the banisht Seneca, Are you cought Sir? Ha, villaine what art thou. A murderer and villaine, O Sir, 'Tis the best thriving trade and best imployd 'Gainst such malevolent Satyrists s you. You that are all for vertue, a meere word, When indeede ther's no such thing; say there be None truly loves it but dies beggerly. Slave, rather dispatch me then torment m sou With thy envenom'd scoffes 'gainst that that is Most rare, most excellent. A little more, And then I'le speede you, excellent Ladies Cannot disable with a charming spell, (A trick of wit, a humour that they have) Husbands they not affect; making free way For Atlas backs to leape their lovely lappes, But your Satyricall censure straight must pae, Th'ones pride's scab-hammd Rascalls, and the Mischiefes veneriall Trulls; these are fine tearmes, Pray who made you a censurer of manners. O slave, T'upbraid such emminent persons What madnesse durst the like, deserv'st not death, Yes, yet your life is safe, passe but your vow T'embrace a beautie I shall bring you to, (More delicate then was the Spartan Queene) One that shall pay large tribute night by night, Give thee thy weight in gold for each delight. Not I, I yeeld my body mercenary slave To lust and lucre, no, though mines of gold She could give oftner then those whoish lookes Women take pride in, to bewitch mens soules; First partch't to Cinders, 'gainst the burning Zone, Be buried quicke▪ all torments possible, (Stretcht on the Tenters of invention) I gladly would (most willingly) endure E're thy soule killing proffers enters here. No? Pish, for my death, ther's too much man in me To feare so sleight a scratch; let it come, I will no budg a foote; strike faire and home, Tis better die then live to live unjust, Slave to th'unsounded Sea of womans lust. Are you so confident, have at you Sir, Your love, your love, 'tis onely that I seeke I am no villaine, though I seem'd in show But one that fearefull in these dangerous times For to retaine a friend; led on by hope Of your faire life, whom envie in your foes Reports no lesse of; caus'd me through disguise, To put to tryall your unvalued worth, Which beyond man I find of such pure mold, Sun-like your vertues outshine purest gold.