Whetstone, George · published 1578 · first performed or written 1578 [1576-1579] (Annals) comedy · Unacted T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.82 · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Room friends, what mean you thus to gaze on us, A comes behind, makes all the sport I was. Farewell, my friends, take warning by my fall, Disdain my life, but listen to my end, Fresh harms, they say, the viewers so appall, As often they win, the wicked to amend. I need not hear, my faults at large recite, Untimely death, doth witness what I was: A wicked man, which made each wrong seem right, Even as I would, was wrested every case. And thus long time, I lived and rule by will, Where as I loved, their faults, I would not see: Those I did hate, ten times beyond there ill I did pursue, vile wretch, with cruelty. Yea daily I, from bad, to worse did slide, The reason was, none durst, control my life: But see the fall, of mischeeve, in his pride. My faults, were known, and lo with bloody Axe, The headseman straight, my wrongs with death will quite: The which, in worth I take, acknowledging, The doom, was given, on cause, and not on spite, Wishing my end, might serve for a warning. For such as rule, and make their will a law, If to such good, my fainting tale might tend, Wretched Promos, the same would longer draw: But if that words prevail, my woeful end From my huge faults, than ten times more will warn. forgiveness now, of all the world I crave, Therewith that you, in zealous prayer, will Beseech of God, that I the grace may have: At latter gasp, the fear of death to kill. Forwards my Lord, me thinks you faintly go. O sir, in my case, yourself would be as slow. Ay me, alas: my hope is untimely. Whether goes my good Lord? Sweet wife, to die. O wretched wench, where may I first complain? When heaven, and earth, agrees upon my pain? This moan good wife, for Christ's sake, forsake: I late resolved, through fear of death, now quake. Not so much, for my heinous sins forepast: As for the grief that present thou dost taste. Nay, I vile wretch, should most aggrieved be, Before thy time, thy death which hastened have: But (O sweet husband) my fault forgive me. And for amendss, I'll help to fill thy grave: forgive thee, ab: nay, for my soul's relief, Forget sweet wife, this thy most guyltles grief. My Lord Promos, these plaints, but move her moan, And your more grief, it is best you ware gone: Good Madam way, by law, your Lord doth die, Wherefore make virtue of necessity: Delay, but works your sorrows, and our blames, So that now, to the comfort of these dames: And your wisdom, enforced, we leave you: My Lord Promos, bid your wife and friends adieu. Farewell, farewell, be of good cheer dear wife: With joy for woe, I shall exchange this life. Andrugio's death, Polina forgive me: I do, and pray the Lord, to relieve ye. Yet ere we part, sweet husband let us kiss, O, at his lips, why faileth not my breath?
nodes 985–1046 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 17 of 19 in this edition
Length
514 words · 725 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.819 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Roome friends, what meane you thus to gaſe on vs, A comes behinde, makes all the ſport I wus. Farewell, my friendes, take warning by my fall, Diſdaine my life, but lyſten to my ende, Freſh harmes, they ſay, the viewers ſo apall, As oft they win, the wicked to amend. I neede not heare, my faultes at large reſyte, Vntimely death, doth witneſſe what I was: A wicked man, which made eache wrong ſeeme right, Euen as I would, was wreſted euery caſe. And thus long tyme, I liu'd and rule by wyl, Where as I lou'd, their faultes, I would not ſée: Thoſe I did hate, tenne tymes beyond there yll I did perſue, vyle wretch, with cruelty. Yea dayly I, from bad, to worſe did ſlyde, The reaſon was, none durſt, controule my lyfe: But ſée the fall, of miſcheeue, in his pride. My faultes, were knowne, and loe with bloddy Axe, The headſeman ſtrayght, my wronges with death wyll quite: The which, in worth I take, acknowledging, The doome, was geuen, on cauſe, and not on ſpyte, Wiſhing my ende, might ſerue for a warning. For ſuch as rule, and make their will a lawe, If to ſuch good, my faynting tale might tend, Wretched Promos, the ſame would lenger draw: But if that wordes preuayle, my wofull ende From my huge faultes, then tenne times more wyll warne. Forgeueneſſe now, of all the world I craue, Therewith that you, in zealous prayer, wyll Beſeeche of God, that I the grace may haue: At latter gaſpe, the feare of death to kyll. Forwards my Lord, me thinkes you fayntly goe. O ſyr, in my caſe, your ſelfe would be as ſlowe. Aye me, alas: my hope is vntimely. Whether goes my good Lord? Swéete wife, to dye. O wretched wench, where may I firſt complayne? When heauen, and earth, agrees vpon my payne? This mone good wife, for Chryſtes ſake, forſake: I late reſolu'd, through feare of death, now quake. Not ſo much, for my haynous ſinnes forepaſt: As for the greefe that preſent thou doſt taſt. Nay, I vile wretch, ſhould moſt agréeued be, Before thy time, thy death which haſtened haue: But (O ſwete huſband) my fault forgeue mée. And for amends, Ile helpe to fyll thy graue: Forgeue thee, ab: nay, for my ſoules reléefe, Forget ſwéete wyfe, this thy moſt guyltles gréefe. My Lord Promos, theſe playntes, but moue hir mone, And your more gréefe, it is beſt you ware gone: Good Maddame way, by lawe, your Lord doth dye, Wherefore make vertue of neceſſity: Delay, but workes your ſorrowes, and our blames, So that now, to the comfort of theſe dames: And your wiſdome, inforced, we leaue you: My Lord Promos, byd your wife and friends adew. Farewell, farewell, be of good cheare deare wyfe: With ioy for woe, I ſhall exchange this life. Andrugios death, Polina forgeue mée: I doe, and pray the Lord, to reléeue yée. Yet ere we part, ſweete huſband let vs kis, O, at his lyppes, why fayleth not my breath?