Nabbes, Thomas · published 1640 · first performed or written 1640 (Annals) not in BritDrama · Unacted unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 462 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
'Tis not yet but in attempt. Y' have saved my life. Why dost thou interpose? Rash man, I do command thee fetch him back, And be his executioner. Art fixed? Obey thy Prince with motion, or I'll turn My rage on thee. What madness hath possessed thee? I'm like to have good subjects, I must beat them Into obedience: think not on defence For that's as vain as if with nothing armed But empty air, thou met'st a Thunderbolt. A sword thus ordered by the hand of Majesty Will make its way. Traitor call back that breath, Which as it doth divide the circling air, Poisons it more than fens from whence the Sun Exhales infectious vapours. Dar'st resist Thy sovereign's Will and power? Disloyal villain, Thy words have made the cause inspire such valour Into my hand and sword, such a just rage To punish thee— It hath a point, I feel it; My royal blood doth waste. 'Tis course and sordid. I fail not yet, my spirits still have force I think that reached you That reached you again. The cause assures me victory. 'Tis enough, W' are both proved mortal. Farewell dearest Master: I die thy loyal Champion. What's this horror Presents itself? Is't real or illusive? My Spurio, Notho, dead! let my soul flight To meet yours in the peaceful shades of rest. Madam look up, suffer not your faint spirits Thus to retire unto their inmost cells: Let them dilate their vigour, and at once Make all your senses useful. This sad accident If well considered is not of such consequence, That it should show how much our passions can Out do our reason. Give me more fresh air, That I may draw it freely in t' increase My sighs; not to preserve the breath that keeps The different parts united. What sad influence Ordered this Tragic action? or what motives Could teach them to direct it to this end? This most unnatural end— Good Madam cease Your exclamations; this may be applied To better use from a consideration. Your honour is secured, your shame prevented: It was a mercy in high providence Would you receive it so. How weak is counsel To desperate frailty? 'tis not your Art can Persuade me to a comfort, being lost To all that should revive it. In these two Were lodged such a proportion of My living joys, in their cold earth remains All my hopes dead and frozen, unto which They whilst they lived gave life. If there were virtue In tears to warm your numbed and bloodless limbs, Into new life and motion, I would bathe them With a large flood: and when the springs were dry Wish myself changed into a weeping marble To be your monument.
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)
'Tis not yet but in attempt. Y' have sav'd my life. Why dost thou interpose? Rash man, I doe command thee fetch him backe, And be his executioner. Art fixt? Obey thy Prince with motion, or I'le turne My rage on thee. What madnesse hath possest thee? I'me like to have good subjects, I must beate them Into obedience: thinke not on defence For that's as vaine as if with nothing arm'd But empty aire, thou mett'st a Thunder-bolt. A sword thus order'd by the hand of Majesty Will make its way. Traytor call backe that breath, Which as it doth divide the circling ayre, Poysons it more than fenns from whence the Sun Exhales infectious vapours. Dar'st resist Thy Soveraignes Will and power? Disloyall villaine, Thy words have made the cause inspire such valour Into my hand and sword, such a just rage To punish thee— It hath a point, I feele it; My royall blood doth wast. 'Tis course and sordid. I faile not yet, my spirits still have force I thinke that reacht you That reacht you agen. The cause assures me victory. 'Tis enough, W' are both prov'd mortall. Farewell dearest Master: I dye thy loyall Champion. What's this horrour Presents it selfe? Is't reall or illusive? My Spurio, Notho, dead! let my soule flight To meet yours in the peacefull shades of rest. Madam looke up, suffer not your faint spirits Thus to retire unto their inmost cells: Let them dilate their vigour, and at once Make all your sences usefull. This sad accident If well consider'd is not of such consequence, That it should shew how much our passions can Out doe our reason. Give me more fresh ayre, That I may draw it freely in t' increase My sighes; not to preserve the breath that keepes The different parts united. What sad influence Order'd this Tragick action? or what motives Could teach them to direct it to this end? This most unnaturall end— Good Madam cease Your exclamations; this may be apply'd To better use from a consideration. Your honour is secur'd, your shame prevented: It was a mercy in high providence Would you receive it so. How weake is counsaile To desperate frailty? 'tis not your Art can Perswade me to a comfort, being lost To all that should revive it. In these two Were lodg'd such a proportion of My living joyes, in their cold earth remaines All my hopes dead and frozen, unto which They whilst they liv'd gave life. If there were vertue In teares to warme your numb'd and bloodlesse limbes, Into new life and motion, I would bath them With a large flood: and when the springs were dry Wish my selfe chang'd into a weeping marble To be your monument.