The Misfortunes of Arthur (Certain Devices and Shows Presented to Her Majesty) · chunk 3 of 35
Hughes, Thomas / Fulbecke, William · published 1587 · first performed or written 1588 [Feb 28] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Eschew it far: such love impugns the laws. Unlawful love doth like, when lawful loathes. And is your love of husband quite extinct? The greater flame must needs delay the less. Besides, his sore revenge I greatly fear. How can you then attempt a fresh offence? Who can appoint a stint to her offence? But here the greatness of the fact should move. The greater it, the fitter for my grief: To kill your spouse? A stranger, and a foe. Your liege and king? He wants both Realm and Crown. Nature affords not to your sex such strength. Love, anguish, wrath, will soon afford enough. What rage is this? Such as himself shall rue. Whom Gods do press enough, will you annoy? Whom Gods do press, they bend: whom man annoys, He breaks. Your grief is more than his deserts: Each fault requires an equal hate: be not severe, Where crimes be light: as you have felt, so grieve. And seems it light to want him nine year space? Then to be spoiled of one I hold more dear? Think all to much, beit ne'er so just, that feeds Continual grief: the lasting woe is worst. Yet let your highness shun these desperate moods, Cast of this rage, and fell disposed mind. Put not shame quite to flight, have some regard Both of your sex, and future fame of life. Use no such cruel thoughts, as far exceeded A manly mind, much more a woman's heart. Well: shame is not so quite exiled, but that I can, and will respect your sage advise. Your Counsel I accept, give leave a while, Till fiery wrath may slake, and rage relent. THE love, that for his rage will not be ruled, Must be restrained: fame shall receive no foil. Let Arthur live, whereof to make him sure, myself will die, and so prevent his harms. Why stayest thou thus amazed O slothful wrath? Mischief is meant, dispatch it on thyself. Her breast not yet appeased from former rage Hath changed her wrath, which wanting means to work another's woe, (for such is furies wont,) seeks out his own, and raves upon itself. Assuage (alas) that over fervent ire, Through to much anger, you offend too much: Thereby the rather you deserve to live, For seeming worthy in yourself to die. Death is decreed: what kind of death, I doubt: Whether to drowned, or stifle up his breath. On forcing blood, to die with dint of knife. All hope of prosperous hap is gone, my fame, My faith, my spouse: no good is left unlost: myself am left, there's left both seas and lands, And sword, and fire, and chains, and choice of harms. O gnawing easeless grief. Who now can heal My maimed mind? it must be healed by death. No mischief must be done, whiles I be by, Or if there must, there must be more than one. If death it be you seek, I seek, it too: Alone you may not die, with me you may.
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)
Eschew it farre: such loue impugnes the lawes▪ Unlawfull loue doth like, when lawfull lothes. And is your loue of husbande quite extinct? The greater flame must neédes delay the lesse. Besides, his sore reuenge I greatly feare. How can you then attempt a fresh offence? Who can appoint a stint to her offence? But here the greatnesse of the fact should moue. The greater it, the fitter for my griefe: To kill your spowse? A stranger, and a foe. Your liedge and king? He wants both Realme and Crowne. Nature affordes not to your sexe such strength. Loue, anguish, wrath, will soone afforde inough. What rage is this? Such as himselfe shall rue. Whom Gods doe presse inough, will you annoy? Whom Gods doe presse, they bende: whom man annoyes, He breakes. Your griefe is more then his desertes: Ech fault requires an equall hate: be not seuere, Where crimes be light: as you haue felt, so greéue. And seémes it light to want him nine yeare space? Then to be spoild of one I hold more deare? Thinke all to much, b'it ne'r so iust, that feédes Continuall griefe: the lasting woe is worst. Yet let your highnesse shun these desperate moodes, Cast of this rage, and fell disposed minde. Put not shame quite to flight, haue some regard Both of your sex, and future fame of life. Use no such cruell thoughts, as farre exceéde A manly minde, much more a womans hart. Well: shame is not so quite exilde, but that I can, and will respect your sage aduise. Your Counsell I accept, giue leaue a while, Till fiery wrath may sake, and rage relent. THE loue, that for his rage will not be rulde, Must be restrainde: fame shall receiue no foile. Let Arthur liue, whereof to make him sure, My selfe will dye, and so preuent his harmes. Why stayest thou thus amazde O slouthfull wrath? Mischiefe is meant, dispatch it on thy selfe. Her breast not yet appeasde from former rage Hath chaungde her wrath, which wanting meanes to worke An others woe, (for such is furies woont,) Seékes out his owne, and raues vpon it selfe. Asswage (alas) that ouer feruent ire, Through to much anger, you offend too much: Thereby the rather you deserue to liue, For seéming worthy in your selfe to dye. Death is decreéd: what kinde of death, I doubt: Whether to dround, or stifill vp his breath. On forcing bloud, to dye with dint of knife. All hope of prosperous hap is gone, my fame, My faith, my spouse: no good is left vnlost: My selfe am left, ther's left both seas and lands, And sword, and fire, and chaines, and choice of harmes. O gnawing easelesse griefe. Who now can heale My maymed minde? it must be healde by death. No mischiefe must be done, whiles I be by, Or if there must, there must be more then one. If death it be you seeke, I seéke, it too: Alone you may not die, with me you may.