Sicily and Naples, or The Fatal Union · chunk 18 of 38
Harding, Samuel · published 1640 · first performed or written 1640 (Annals) not in BritDrama T38 Death, parting and grief at court typicality 0.86 · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Urge it no more, thy misery's Virgin Queen Are powerful with me, and have taught this breast A sad repentance. Canst thou Ferrando then repent? I can, that I have wronged thy innocence, Killed thy father. O take me to thy soul, we'll mingle sighs, And tears, which still shall flow together from us, As if the motion were but one; and those So frequent, that the stones, which cloth his dust, Shall soften into turf, from whence shall spring A bed of flowers, creeping about the grave, As if they'd strew themselves upon him, then Whither, that men might think we wept for them. Yet pardon Love, whenever I remember He was a Prince, a Prince of equal power, And strength with him he wronged; that he once stood A bar betwixt our loves, or rather mocked Our hopes of mutual enjoyment; that For his own peevish humour, he would ruin The edifice, that we had built to honour, I glory in the act. Take pity on me courteous death! My thoughts are grown more terrible than thou! I am monstrous, a prodigy in nature, one with Him, that was my father's murderer. Royal my Queen! 'Tis the excess of piety, The error of your duty, that thus wrongs The justice of my cause. Yet you might have spared His life, and made it your just praise, that you Could conquer, and not kill: He was so eager in the pursuit of the foe, When first he routed us, that willingly He ran upon my sword, that stood t'oppose His haste, and met a death instead of victory. Nay rather we may say, that he met both Who triumphs over life, and all the misery's That too officiously attend upon it; Crown his pale statua, with victorious wreaths, And call his unkind fate, his happiness! His fall was honourable, Kings like other men Travel to death, they go i'th' common road, Are in their end as sensible of pain As the base peasants, whom they by and by I'th' grave are equal with; their only privilege Is in their executioner, who would not rather Fall under a king's hand, than yield his life Up to a weak disease, a Fever, Gout, Or grating Stone, which had he missed this stroke, Might straight have seized him; and have robbed him of The glory of his end? I cannot yield So far to reason, but I still must look Upon you, as an enemy to Sicily; As him that killed my father, and so hate you; Yet I must love you too: when first we met Together in your Tent, both armed (you know) I would have fought, nay, and have killed you too, (Could skill or strength have done it, some I had Of both;) yet I meant not to survive you, Nor should I need t'have made another wound To let mine own life out, I'd died with yours. Ursini thou must quit some interest in my love, Calantha—
seed 43: T44 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Urge it no more, thy miſery's Virgin Queene Are powerfull with me, and have taught this breaſt A ſad repentance. Canſt thou Ferrando then repent? I can, that I have wrong'd thy innocence, Kill'd thy father. O take me to thy ſoule, wee'l mingle ſighs, And teares, which ſtill ſhall flow together from us, As if the motion were but one; and thoſe So frequent, that the ſtones, which cloth his duſt, Shall ſoften into turfe, from whence ſhall ſpring A bed of flowers, creeping about the grave, As if they'd ſtrew themſelves upon him, then Whither, that men might thinke we wept for them. Yet pardon Love, when ever I remember He was a Prince, a Prince of equall power, And ſtrength with him he wrong'd; that he once ſtood A barre betwixt our loves, or rather mockt Our hopes of mutuall enjoyment; that For his owne peeviſh humour, he would ruine The edifice, that we had built to honour, I glory in the act. Take pitty on me courteous death! My thoughts are growne more terrible then thou! I am monſtrous, a prodigy in nature, one with Him, that was my fathers murderer. Royall my Queene! 'Tis the exceſſe of pietie, The errour of your duty, that thus wrongs The juſtice of my cauſe. Yet you might have ſpar'd His life, and made it your juſt praiſe, that you Could conquer, and not kill: He was ſo eager in the purſuite of the foe, When firſt he routed us, that willingly He ran upon my ſword, that ſtood t'oppoſe His haſte, and met a death inſtead of victory. Nay rather we may ſay, that he met both Who triumphs over life, and all the miſery's That too officiouſly attend upon it; Crowne his pale ſtatua, with victorious wreaths, And call his unkinde fate, his happineſſe! His fall was honourable, Kings like other men Travell to death, they goe i'th' common roade, Are in their end as ſenſible of paine As the baſe peaſants, whom they by and by I'th' grave are equall with; their only priviledge Is in their executioner, who would not rather Fall under a Kings hand, than yeeld his life Up to a weake diſeaſe, a Feaver, Gout, Or grating Stone, which had he miſt this ſtroke, Might ſtreight have ſeiz'd him; and have rob'd him of The glory of his end? I cannot yeeld So farre to reaſon, but I ſtill muſt looke Upon you, as an enemy to Sicily; As him that kill'd my father, and ſo hate you; Yet I muſt love you too: when firſt we met Together in your Tent, both arm'd (you know) I would have fought, nay, and have kill'd you too, (Could skill or ſtrength have done it, ſome I had Of both;) yet I meant not to ſurvive you, Nor ſhould I neede t'have made another wound To let mine owne life out, l'de dyed with yours. Ʋrſini thou muſt quit ſome intereſt in my love, Calantha —