Shirley, James · published 1640 · first performed or written 1640 (Annals) not in BritDrama · Ogilby's Men unassigned nearest T26 Devils, hell and fiends · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T26: devil, hell, devils, sure, soul, fiend, sr, wife, lord, men.
He has made a cullis of my sconce, hold dear friend. Has the devil no more wit than to take part against the flesh? The Devil may have a mind to her himself, let him ha' her. If I come back, let me be glibbed. Now Lady— what, is she invisible too? Ha. Well, let her shift for herself, I have tamed their concupiscence. Now to my business of hanging again. I do like none of these trees; the Devil is at my elbow now, I do hear him whisper in mine ear, that any tree would serve, if I would but give my mind to't. Let me consider, what shall I get by hanging of myself, how it will be to no purpose, a halter will be but cast away, by your leave— I would not have you much out of the way, because here are trees that other men may hold convenient.— Oh, my wrist: 'Tis a spirit. Sweet Devil, you shall have it, the bracelet is at your service. Have I all my fingers? A pox on his fangs, now o' o' my conscience I am visible again, if the Soldiers should meet with me now, whom I have pounded, what case were I in? I feel a distillation, and would be heartily beaten to save my life. Here's one, for aught I know, may be as dangerous: A pox of despair that brought me hither to choose my gallows; would I were at home in an embroidered clout.— I'll sneak this way. I am no ghost, but the same lost Emeria, My Lord, you left me. Did not the flames devour thee. I felt no flame, but that which my revenge Did light me to, for my abused honour. Oh say that word again: Art thou revenged Upon thy ravisher? It was a god, Thou told'st me. But he found the way to death: And when I name him, you will either not Believe me, or compassion of his wounds Will make you print as many in my breast: He was— Say, fear not, wronged Emeria, Can any heart find compassion for his death, That murdered the sweet peace of thy chaste bosom? Oh never, I shall bless that resolute hand, That was so just, so pious; and when thou hast Assured, that he which played the Satire with thee, Is out o'th' world, and killed sufficiently, (For he that robbed thee hath deserved to die, To the extent of his wide sin) I'll kiss, And take thee in mine arms, Emeria, And lay thee up as precious to my love, As when our vows met, and our yielding bosoms Were witness to the contract of our hearts. It was your brother Coribreus, Sir: That name unties your promise. Ha! my brother? Sweet, let me pause a little, I am lost else. I did not well to enlarge his sorrow thus: Though I can hope no comfort in this world, He might live happy, if I did not kill him, With heaping grief on grief thus. He is slain then.
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)
He has made a cullice of my sconce, hold deere friend. Has the devil no more wit then to take part against the flesh? The Devill may have a minde to her himselse, let him ha her. If I come back, let me be glib'd. Now Lady—what, is shee invisible too? Ha. Well, let her shift for her selfe, I have tam'd their concupiscence. Now to my businesse of hanging agen. I doe like none of these trees; the Devill is at my elbow now, I doe heare him whisper in mine eare, that any tree would serve, if I would but give my mind to't. Let me consider, what shall I get by hanging of my selfe, how it will be to no purpose, a halter will be but cast away, by your leave—I would not have you much out of the way, because here are trees that other men may hold convenient.—Oh, my wrist: 'Tis a spirit. Sweet Devill, you shall have it, the bracelet is at your service. Have I all my fingers? A pox on his fangs, now o▪my conscience I am visible agen, if the Souldiers should meet with me now, whom I have pounded, what case were I in? I feele a destillation, and would be heartily beaten to save my life. Here's one, for ought I know, may be as dangerous: A pox of despaire that brought mehither to choose my gallowes; would I were at home in an embroydered clout.—I'll sneake this way. I am no ghost, but the same lost Emeria, My Lord, you left me. Did not the flames devoure thee. I felt no flame, but that which my revenge Did light me to, for my abused honour. Oh say that word agen: Art thou reveng'd Upon thy ravisher? It was a god, Thou told'st me. But he found the way to death: And when I name him, you will either not Beleeve me, or compassion of his wounds Will make you print as many in my brest: He was— Say, feare not, wrong'd Emeria, Can any heart find compassion for his death, That murder'd the sweet peace of thy chaste bosome? Oh never, I shall blesse that resolute hand, That was so just, so pious; and when thou hast Assur'd, that he which playd the Satyre with thee, Is out o'th' world, and kill'd sufficiently, (For he that robb'd thee hath deserv'd to dye, To the extent of his wide sin) I'll kisse, And take thee in mine armes, Emeria, And lay thee up as precious to my love, As when our vowes met, and our yeelding bosomes Were witnesse to the contract of our hearts. It was your brother Coribreus, Sir: That name unties your promise. Ha! my brother? Sweet, let me pause a little, I am lost else. I did not well to enlarge his sorrow thus: Though I can hope no comfort in this world, He might live happie, if I did not kill him, With heaping griefe on griefe thus. He is slaine then.