The Constant Maid (Love Will Find Out the Way) · chunk 30 of 32
Shirley, James · published 1640 · first performed or written 1638 [1630(?)-1640] (Annals) not in BritDrama T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.86 · 530 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
ay but slew a coward Startup, and could I call his life again, As soon I should destroy it; you perhaps Know not my provocation: He has My Rival, sir, pardon me: Mistress Bellamy, To whom I only seemed a Proselyte In love, I had no heart to give from her: And in my study to decline your anger; I fell upon her scorn, which in few minutes, Engaged me to this Fate; Not am I troubled That I must die, when she upon whose faith I durst have laid the hopes of my eternity, Hath violated all the trust of woman. willt please you, sir— Forbear a little. Tell me, most unkind, if thou didst love At all? How couldst thou think I should be such A desperate Atheist, that thou so soon, And with a strange Apostasy shouldst revenge it? These swelling drops which in thy innocence Might ha' prevailed to ha' restored the dead, Heaven now doth look on, and despise: And though Thou shed moist tribute on this Tomb, 't shall slide, Neglected o'er the Marble, and be lost, As if the stone had sense to punish thy Disdain of me: I can behold that weeping, And not be moved to wish I were not guilty Of killing him whose love had been thy triumph; And I dare boldly, still in the contempt Of what I am to suffer, and the justice Of my own truth, challenge thy soul to answer In what I was beneath that gaudy fool, Excepting that he had more earth than I To help his scale, which yet he may be indebt for To his father's sins: Alive, he could not merit One cold disdain from thee; And dead, how comes it He should be worth thy tears? But let thy eyes Chide this unruly sorrow; dress thy cheeks With their fresh blood again, and let thy face Open a book of smiles, in the assurance I have not long to live; When I have numbered A few sad minutes, thou shalt be revenged, And I shall never trouble thee: If this Be not enough, extend thy malice further: And if thou find'st one man that loved me living, Will honour this cold body with a grave, Be cruel, and corrupt his charity. So fare ye well. Yet you must stay and hear me: He sha'not suffer, if my friends or state Can purchase him a pardon: Where's the body Of him that's slain? We know not; But you hear His free confession of the fact. This may Proceed from discontents; Life to some man Is but their torment in whose pain they will, As on the Wrack, confess what never Was in their thought. Speak it again, and I Dare promise thee to live. My heart was ever Constant, my mother's love was but thy trial, As mine a seeming change in thy disguise, Which was not able to secure thee from me; The words were, I would choose my husband here: But what will this avail us? Mr. justice, I here discharge you. How? My joys obeys No limits; I accused my false unjustly, The fool's alive. Startup, Where?
nodes 2054–2126 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 30 of 32 in this edition
Length
530 words · 665 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.860 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I but slew a coward Startup, and could I call his life agen, As soone I should destroy it; you perhaps Know not my provocation: He has My Rivall, sir, pardon me: Mistris Bellamy, To whom I only seemed a Proselyte In love, I had no heart to give from her: And in my study to decline your anger; I fell upon her scorne, which in few minutes, Engaged me to this Fate; Not am I troubled That I must dye, when she upon whose faith I durst have laid the hopes of my eternity, Hath violated all the trust of woman. Wilt please you, sir— Forbear a little. Tell me, most unkinde, if thou didst love At all? How couldst thou thinke I should be such A desperate Atheist, that thou so soone, And with a strange Apostacy should'st revenge it? These swelling drops which in thy innocence Might ha' prevail'd to ha' restor'd the dead, Heaven now doth looke on, and despise: And though Thou shed moist tribute on this Tombe, 't shall slide, Neglected o're the Marble, and be lost, As if the stone had sense to punish thy Disdaine of me: I can behold that weeping, And not be moved to wish I were not guilty Of killing him whose love had been thy triumph; And I dare boldly, still in the contempt Of what I am to suffer, and the justice Of my owne truth, challenge thy soule to answer In what I was beneath that gaudy foole, Excepting that he had more earth than I To helpe his scale, which yet he may be indebt for To his fathers sins: Alive, he could not merit One cold disdaine from thee; And dead, how comes it He should be worth thy teares? But let thy eyes Chide this unruly sorrow; dresse thy cheekes With their fresh blood again, and let thy face Open a book of smiles, in the assurance I have not long to live; When I have numbred A few sad minutes, thou shalt be reveng'd, And I shall never trouble thee: If this Be not enough, extend thy malice further: And if thou find'st one man that lov'd me living, Will honour this cold body with a grave, Be cruell, and corrupt his charity. So fare ye well. Yet you must stay and heare me: He sha'not suffer, if my friends or state Can purchase him a pardon: Where's the body Of him that's slaine? We know not; But you heare His free confession of the fact. This may Proceed from discontents; Life to some man Is but their torment in whose paine they will, As on the Wracke, confesse what never Was in their thought. Speak it agen, and I Dare promise thee to live. My heart was ever Constant, my mothers love was but thy triall, As mine a seeming change in thy disguise, Which was not able to secure thee from The words were, I would choose my But what will this availe us? Mr. Iustice, I here discharge you. How? My joyes obeyes No limits; I accus'd my false unjustly, The fool's alive. Startup, Where?