Herbert, Mary Sidney / Garnier, RobertSidney Herbert, Mary · published 1595 · first performed or written 1590 (Annals) tragedy T54 Antony and Cleopatra: love, death and mo typicality 0.86 · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T54: antony, caesar, anthony, cleopatra, antonius, love, death, die, heart, breast.
madam for God's love Leave us not thus: bid us yet first farewell. Alas! weep over Antony: Let not His body be without due rites entombed. Ah, ah. madam. Ay me! How faint she is? My Sisters, hold me up. How wretched I, How cursed am: and was there ever one By Fortune's hate into more dolours thrown? Ah, weeping Niobe, although thy heart Beholds itself enwrapped in causeful woe For thy dead children, that a senseless rock With grief become, on Sipylus thou stand'st In endless tears: yet didst thou never feel The weights of grief that on my heart do lie. Thy Children thou, mine I poor soul have lost, And lost their Father, more than them I wail, Lost this fair realm; yet me the heavens wrath Into a stone not yet transformed hath. Phaeton's sisters, daughters of the Sun, Which wail your brother fallen into the streams Of stately Po: the Gods upon the banks Your bodies to bank-loving Alders turned. For me, I sigh, I ceaseless weep, and wail, And heaven pitiless laughs at my woe, Revives, renews it still: and in the end (Oh cruelty!) doth death for comfort lend. Die Cleopatra then no longer stay From Antony, who thee at Styx attends: Go join thy Ghost with his, and sob no more Without his love within these tombs enclosed. Alas! yet let us weep, lest sudden death From him our tears, and those last duties take Unto his tomb we owe. Ah let us weep While moisture lasts, then die before his feet. Who furnish will mine eyes with streaming tears My boiling anguish worthily to wail, Wail thee Antony, Antony my heart? Alas, how much I weeping liquour want! Yet have mine eyes quite drawn their Conduits dry By long beweeping my disastered harms. Now reason is that from my side they suck First vital moisture, than the vital blood. Then let the blood from my sad eyes outflow, And smoking yet with thine in mixture grow. Moist it, and heat it new, and never stop, All watering thee, while yet remains one drop. Antony take our tears: this is the last Of all the duties we to thee can yield, Before we die. These sacred obsequies Take Antony, and take them in good part. O Goddess thou whom Cyprus doth adore, Venus of Paphos, bent to work us harm For old Iulus brood, if thou take care Of Caesar, why of us tak'st thou no care? Antony did descend, as well as he, From thine own Son by long enchained line: And might have ruled by one and self same fate, True Trojan blood, the stately Roman state. Antony, poor Antony, my dear soul, Now but a block, the booty of a tomb, Thy life thy heat is lost, thy colour gone, And hideous paleness on thy face hath seized. Thy eyes, two Suns, the lodging place of love,
seed 43: T51 · seed 44: T48 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Madame for Gods loue Leaue vs not thus: bid vs yet first farwell. Alas! wepe ouer Antony: Let not His bodie be without due rites entomb'd. Ah, ah. Madame. Ay me! How fainte she is? My Sisters, holde me vp. How wretched I, How cursed am: and was there euer one By Fortunes hate into more dolours throwne? Ah, weeping Niobe, although thy heart Beholds it selfe enwrap'd in causefull woe For thy dead children, that a sencelesse rocke With griefe become, on Sipylus thou stand'st In endles teares: yet didst thou neuer feele The weights of griefe that on my heart do lie. Thy Children thou, mine I poore soule haue lost, And lost their Father, more then them I waile, Lost this faire realme; yet me the heauens wrath Into a stone not yet transformed hath. Phaetons sisters, daughters of the Sunne, Which waile your brother falne into the streames Of stately Po: the Gods vpon the bankes Your bodies to banke-louing Alders turn'd. For me, I sigh, I ceasles wepe, and waile, And heauen pittiles laughes at my woe, Reuiues, renewes it still: and in the ende (Oh cruelty!) doth death for comfort lend. Die Cleopatra then no longer stay From Antony, who thee at Styx attends: Go ioyne thy Ghost with his, and sob no more Without his loue within these tombes enclos'd. Alas! yet let vs wepe, lest sodaine death From him our teares, and those last duties take Vnto his tombe we owe. Ah let vs wepe While moisture lasts, then die before his feete. Who furnish will mine eies with streaming teares My boiling anguish worthily to waile, Waile thee Antony, Antony my heart? Alas, how much I weeping liquor want! Yet haue mine eies quite drawne their Condits drie By long beweeping my disastred harmes. Now reason is that from my side they sucke First vitall moisture, then the vitall bloud. Then let the bloud from my sad eies outflowe, And smoking yet with thine in mixture grow. Moist it, and heat it newe, and neuer stop, All watring thee, while yet remaines one drop. Antony take our teares: this is the last Of all the duties we to thee can yelde, Before we die. These sacred obseques Take Antony, and take them in good parte. O Goddesse thou whom Cyprus doth adore, Venus of Phaphos, bent to worke vs harme For olde Iulus broode, if thou take care Of Caesar, why of vs tak'st thou no care? Antony did descend, as well as he, From thine owne Sonne by long enchained line: And might haue rul'd by one and selfe same fate, True Troian bloud, the stately Romain state. Antony, poore Antony, my deare soule, Now but a blocke, the bootie of a tombe, Thy life thy heat is lost, thy coullour gone, And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz'd. Thy eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place of loue,