Whetstone, George · published 1578 · first performed or written 1578 [1576-1579] (Annals) comedy · Unacted unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 503 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
These two days, I have been in Court disguised: Where I have learned, the scourge that is devised, For Promos fault, he my Sister spoused hath, To salve her Fame, cracked by his breach of faith. And shortly he, must loose his subtle head: For murdering me, whom no man thinks but dead. His will, was good: and therefore beshrew me, If (moved with ruth) I seek, to set him free. But softly, with some news, these fellows come: I will stand close, and hear both all and some. Marshall, hear you warrant is: with speed, The king commands, that Promos you behead. Sir, his highness will, shallbe forthwith done. The king well-nigh to pardon him was won, His heavy wife, such storms of tears did shower, As might, with ruth, have moist a stony heart. But Promos guilt, did soon this grace devour. Our gracious king, before her wretched smart, Preferred, the health, of this our common weal: But see again, to sue for him she comes, Her ruthful looks, her grief, doth force me feel. With hope, I must, her sorrows needs delay: Till Promos be dispatched out of the way. Sir Vlrico, if that my unknown grief, May move good minds, to help me to relief, Or bitter sighs, of comfort clean dismayed, May move a man, a shiftless dame to aid: Rue of my tears, from true intent which flow, Unto the king, with me, yet once more go. See if his grace, my husband's life will save, If not, with his, death shall my corpse engrave. What shall I do, her sorrows to decrease? Feed her, with hope: fair dame, this moan surcease, I see the king to grace is somewhat bend, We once again thy sorrows will present: Come we will weight for time, thy suit to show. Good knight, for time, do not my suit foreslow. Whilst grass, doth grow oft starves the silly steed. Fear not, your Lord, shall not die with such speed. Lord God, how am I tormented in thought? My sister's woe, such ruth in me doth grave: As fain I would (if aught save death I caught) Bewray myself, Lord Promos life to save. But life is sweet, and nought but death I eye, If that I should, my safety now disclose: So that I choose, of both the evils, he die: Time will appease, no dought, Cassandra's woes, And shall, I thus acquit Cassandra's love? To work her joy? and shall I fear to die? Whilst, that she live, no comfort may remove Care from her heart, if that her husband die? Then shall I stick, to hazard limb? nay life? To salve her grief, since in my cure it rests. Nay first, I willbe spoiled, with bloody knife, Before, I fail, her, plunged in distress. Death, is but death, and all in fine shall die Thus (being dead) my fame, shall live always: Well, to the king, Andrugio now will high, Hap life, hap death, his safety, to bewray.
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)
Theſe two dayes, I haue bene in Court diſguiſ'd: Where I haue learnd, the ſcorge that is deuiſ'd, For Promos faulte, he my Syſter ſpowſed hath, To ſalue hir Fame, crackt by his breache of fayth. And ſhortlie he, muſt loſe his ſubtyll head: For murdring me, whome no man thinkes but dead. His wyll, was good: and therfore beſhrewe mee, If (mou'd with ruthe) I ſeeke, to ſet him free. But ſoftlie, with ſome newes, theſe fellowes come: I wyll ſtande cloſe, and heare both all and ſome. Marshall, heare you warrant is: with ſpéede, The king commaundes, that Promos you behead. Sir, his highneſſe wyll, ſhalbe forthwith done. The king welnye to pardon him was wonne, His heauy wyfe, ſuch ſtormes of teares did ſhowre, As myght, with rueth, haue moyſt a ſtony hart. But Promos guylt, dyd ſoone this grace deuoure. Our gratious king, before hir wretched ſmart, Preferd, the helth, of this our common weale: But ſee againe, to ſue for him ſhe comes, Her ruthfull lookes, her gréefe, doth force mée féele. With hope, I muſt, hir ſorrowes néedes delay: Tyll Promos be diſpacht out of the way. Syr Vlrico, if that my vnknowne gréefe, May moue good mindes, to helpe mee to releefe, Or bytter ſyghes, of comfort cleane diſmayde, May moue a man, a ſhiftleſſe dame to ayde: Rue of my teares, from true intent which flowe, Vnto the king, with me, yet once more goe. Sée if his grace, my huſbands lyfe wyll ſaue, If not, with his, death ſhall my corps ingraue. What ſhall I doe, her ſorrowes to decreace? Feede her, with hope: fayre dame, this mone ſurceaſe, I ſee the king to grace is ſomewhat bent, We once agayne thy ſorrowes wyll preſent: Come we wyl wayght for tyme, thy ſute to ſhow. Good knight, for time, doe not my ſute foreſlowe. Whylſt graſſe, doth growe ofte ſterues the ſeely ſtéede. Feare not, your Lorde, ſhal not dye with ſuch ſpéede. Lord God, how am I tormented in thought? My ſiſters woe, ſuch rueth in me doth graue: As fayne I would (if ought ſaue death I caught) Bewray my ſelfe, Lord Promos life to ſaue. But lyfe is ſweete, and naught but death I eye, If that I ſhould, my ſafety now diſcloſe: So that I chuſe, of both the euels, he dye: Time wyll appeaſe, no dought, Caſſandras woes, And ſhal, I thus acquite Caſſandras loue? To worke her ioy? and ſhall I feare to dye? Whylſt, that ſhe lyue, no comforte may remoue Care from her harte, if that hir huſband dye? Then ſhall I ſtycke, to haſard lym? nay life? To ſalue hir greefe, ſince in my cure it reſts. Nay fyrſt, I wilbe ſpoyld, with blooddy knife, Before, I fayle, her, plunged in diſtres. Death, is but death, and all in fyne ſhall dye Thus (being dead) my fame, ſhall liue alway: Well, to the king, Andrugio now wyll hye, Hap lyfe, hap death, his ſafety, to bewray.