Whetstone, George · published 1578 · first performed or written 1578 [1576-1579] (Annals) comedy · Unacted unassigned nearest T6 Money, debt and credit · 463 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T6: money, master, pound, law, lawyer, chain, gentleman, gold, pay, pray.
If this be true, so toll a deed, shall not unpunished go, How sayst thou Promos, to her plaint? art guilty? yea, or no? Why speak'st thou not? a faulty heart, thy silence sure doth show. My guilty heart commands my tongue. O king, to tell a truth, I do confess this tale is true, and I deserve thy wrath. And is it so? this wicked deed, thou shalt ere long buy dear, Cassandra, take comfort in care, be of good cheer: Thy forced fault, was free from evil intent, So long, no shame, can blot thee any way. And though at full, I hardly can content thee, Yet as I may, assure thyself I will. Thou wicked man, might it not thee suffice, By worse than force, to spoil her chastity, But heaping sin on sin against thy oath, Haste cruelly, her brother done to death. This over proof, ne can but make me think, That many ways thou hast my subjects wronged: For how canst thou with justice use thy sway? When thou thyself dost make thy will a law? Thy tyranny made me, this progress make, How so, for sport till now I coloured it Unto this end, that I might learn at large, What other wrongs by power, thou hast wrought, And here, I hear: the Rich suppress the poor: So that it seems, the best and thou art friends: I placed thee not, to be a partial judge. Thy officers are covetous I find, By whose reports, thou over culest suits. Then who that gives, an Item in the hand, In right, and wrong, is sure of good success. Well, Varlet, well: too slow I hither came, To scourge, thy faults, and salve the sores thou mad'st: On thee vile wretch, this sentence I pronounce. That forth with, thou shalt marry Cassandra, For to repair her honour, thou didst waste: The next day thou shalt loose thy hated life. In penance, that thou mad'st her Brother die. My faults were great, O King, yet grant me mercy, That now with bloody sighs, lament my sins too late. Hac facias alteri, quod tibi vis fieri: Pity was no plea Sir, when you in judgement sat, Prepare yourself to die, in vain you hope for life. My Lords, bring him with me: Cassandra come you in like case▪ Myself will see, thy honour salved, in making thee his Wife, The sooner to shorten his days. We wait upon your Grace. Sir Vlrico, I wild, Commission should be made, To Sir Anthony Alberto, and justice Diron, To hear and determine, all suits to be had Between Master Prostro, and this poor man: is it done? Renowned King, it is ready: Repair to Sir Vlrico, for thy Commission: God preserve your Majesty.
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)
If this be true, ſo towle a deede, ſhall not vnpuniſht goe, How ſayſt thou Promos, to her playnte? arte giltye? yea, or noe? Why ſpeakſt thou not? a faulty harte, thy ſcilence ſure doth ſhowe. My gilty hart commaunds my tongue. O king, to tell a truth, I doe confeſſe this tale is true, and I deſerue thy wrath. And is it ſo? this wicked deede, thou ſhalt ere long buy deare, Caſſandra, take comfort in care, be of good cheere: Thy forced fault, was free from euill intent, So long, no ſhame, can blot thee any way. And though at ful, I hardly can content thee, Yet as I may, aſſure thy ſelfe I wyl. Thou wycked man, might it not thee ſuffice, By worſe then force, to ſpoyle her chaſtitie, But heaping ſinne on ſinne againſt thy oth, Haſte cruelly, her brother done to death. This ouer proofe, ne can but make me thinke, That many waies thou haſt my ſubiectes wrongd: For how canſt thou with Iuſtice vſe thy ſwaie? When thou thy ſelfe doſt make thy will a lawe? Thy tyrranny made mee, this progreſſe make, How ſo, for ſport tyll nowe I colloured it Vnto this ende, that I might learne at large, What other wronges by power, thou haſt wrought, And héere, I heare: the Ritche ſuppreſſe the poore: So that it ſéemes, the beſt and thou art friendes: I plaſte thée not, to be a partiall Iudge. Thy Offycers are couetous I finde, By whoſe reportes, thou ouer culeſt ſutes. Then who that geues, an Item in the hande, In ryght, and wrong, is ſure of good ſucceſſe. Well, Varlet, well: too ſlowe I hether came, To ſcourge, thy faultes, and ſalue the ſores thou mad'ſt: On thée vyle wretche, this ſentence I pronounce. That foorth with, thou ſhalt marrie Caſsandra, For to repayre hir honour, thou dydſt waſte: The next daye thou ſhalt loſe thy hated lyfe. In penaunce, that thou mad'ſt hir Brother dye. My faultes were great, O King, yet graunt me mercie, That nowe with bloody ſighes, lament my ſinnes too late. Hac facias alteri, quod tibi vis fieri: Pittie was no plée Syr, when you in iudgement ſate, Prepare your ſelfe to dye, in vaine you hope for lyfe. My Lordes, bring him with mée: Caſſandra come you in like caſe▪ My ſelfe wyll ſée, thy honour ſalu'd, in making thée his Wife, The ſooner to ſhorten his dayes. We wayte vpon your Grace. Syr Vlrico, I wyld, Commiſſion ſhould be made, To Syr Anthony Alberto, and Iustice Diron, To heare and determine, all ſutes to be had Betwene Maiſter Prostro, and this poore man: is it done? Renowned King, it is ready: Repayre to Syr Ʋlrico, for thy Commiſſion: God preſerue your Maieſtie.