Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
And he has charged me, to whisper't about Court, that he has enjoyed her. I wonder much, since he seeks her himself in marriage, why he should thus traduce her. On my conscience she's virtuous. His plots are dark, and misty, but come, prithee let's leave this talk, we have state knowledge enough already to make us melancholy: I'll show thee a scene of mirth— Where lies it? This Physician that was sent for hither from the University to our melancholy Princess, they say, endures no music, and I've prepared a whole consort of these gut-scrapers this morning to salute him; no doubt but he'll be be very bountiful. If the varlets can make good use of his charity. I wonder much the Court endures him here; he's an odd humoursome fellow. His art privileges him. My Lord.— Conduct that Moore hither, and see we have all privacy that may be. He shall wear my life upon his sword that enters without my leave. See, he comes: here's one that's fit to kill a King, A thing, whose soul is nothing but a spot Transmitted from foul parricides, whose thoughts Wear a more deep and horrid black, than that Which spreads upon his body— My Zisco welcome. This day my Lord— No more, I know what thou wouldst say: I promised To endear thee to Ferrando's love, and knowledge, Are you according to my instructions ready To meet all his demands? Perfect. With a forged Commendamus from his holiness? Of my stout service done against the Turks In the Lepanto battle, where I turned Christian, And was baptized in mine own blood. 'Tis well, but how stood thou resolved for our design? Unmoved as destiny. Could you have told me of it in that minute I should have acted it, I'd owe you for The glory of a sin, I might have boasted of; What we intend, ne'er rises to that height As what we act, because 'tmay prove abortive, And perish in the thought, and for such crimes, I only have repentance. But he's a Prince— Why there's the honour on't, Killing the head, I kill the body too, And at one blow lay a whole Kingdom gasping. One upon whom attends a guard of men, And Angels, on whose brow divinity Sits charactered, a Majesty that darts Forked arrows into the guilty soul, and strikes A palsied fear through every limb and joint Of the murderer. Fancy, fancy this, I'm proof against it; I'll take him in's cups When he's drunk, betray him to a rape, Or fouler sin, then kill him in the act. Whom? The King. Traitor. 'Tis as soon done as thought of. He never loved thee Zisco, nor was known By special favours to deserve thee to him; But he has made me great, worn me in's soul; His father took me up, when I was nothing, Bequeathed me to him, as a care hereditary, Belonging to the Crown, placed me so near him, I've grown, and spread like a tall mountain Cedar.
University/Inns of Court;Closet/Unacted;Nonprofessional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 1153 · TCP A02629 · DEEP 986
Edition role
Representative edition — used in the analysis
Position
nodes 287–348 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 6 of 38 in this edition
Length
509 words · 681 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.758 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
And he has charg'd me, to whiſper't about Court, that he has enjoy'd her. I wonder much, fince he ſeekes her himſelfe in marriage, why hee ſhould thus traduce her. On my conſcience ſhe's vertuous. His plots are darke, and myſtie, but come, prithee let's leave this talke, we have ſtate knowledge enough already to make us melancholy: I'le ſhew thee a ſcene of mirth— Where lies it? This Phyſitian that was ſent for hither from the Univerſitie to our melancholy Princeſſe, they ſay, indures no muſicke, and I've prepar'd a whole conſort of theſe gut-ſcrapers this morning to ſalute him; no doubt but hee'le bee be very bountifull. If the varlets can make good uſe of his charity. I wonder much the Court endures him here; he's an odde humerſome fellow. His art priviledges him. My Lord.— Conduct that Moore hither, and ſee wee have all privacie that may be. Hee ſhall weare my life upon his ſword that enters without my leave. See, he comes: here's one that's fit to kill a King, A thing, whoſe ſoule is nothing but a ſpot Tranſmitted from foule parricides, whoſe thoughts Weare a more deepe and horrid blacke, than that Which ſpreads upon his body— My Ziſco welcome. This day my Lord — No more, I know what thou would'ſt ſay: I promiſ'd To endeare thee to Ferrando's love, and knowledge, Are you according to my inſtructions ready To meete all his demands? Perfect. With a forg'd Commendamus from his holineſſe? —Of my ſtout ſervice done againſt the Turkes In the Lepanto battle, where I turn'd Chriſtian, And was baptiz'd in mine owne blood. 'Tis well, but how ſtands't thou reſolv'd for our deſigne? Unmov'd as deſtiny. —Could you have told me of it in that minute I ſhould have acted it, I'de owe you for The glory of a ſinne, I might have boaſted of; What we intend, nere riſes to that height As what we act, becauſe t'may prove abottive, And periſh in the thought, and for ſuch crimes, I onely have repentance. But he's a Prince — Why there's the honour on't, Killing the head, I kill the body too, And at one blow lay a whole Kingdome gaſping. —One upon whom attends a guard of men, And Angels, on whoſe brow divinity Sits character'd, a Majeſtie that darts Fork't arrows into the guilty ſoule, and ſtrikes A palſied feare through every limbe and joynt Of the murderer. Fancie, fancie this, I'me proofe againſt it; Ile take him in's cups When he's drunke, betray him to a rape, Or fowler ſinne, then kill him in the act. Whom? The King. Traytour. 'Tis as ſoone done as thought of. He never lov'd thee Ziſco, nor was knowne By ſpeciall favours to deſerve thee to him; But he has made me great, worne me in's ſoule; His father tooke mee up, when I was nothing, Bequeath'd me to him, as a care hereditary, Belonging to the Crowne, plac't mee ſo neere him, I've growne, and ſpread like a tall mountaine Cedar.