The Spanish Tragedy (Hieronimo is Mad Again) · chunk 14 of 41
Kyd, Thomas · published 1592 · first performed or written 1587 [1585-1589; revised c.1597(?) and 1601-2] (Annals) tragedy · Unknown unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 493 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Then thus begin our wars put forth thy hand, That it may combat with my ruder hand. Set forth thy foot to try the push of mine. But first my looks shall combat against thine. Then ward thyself, I dart this kiss at thee. Thus I retort the dart thou threw'st at me. Nay then to gain the glory of the field, My twining arms shall yoke and make thee yield. Nay then my arms are large and strong with: Thus Elms by vines are compassed till they fall. O let me go, for in my troubled eyes, Now mayst thou read that life in passion dies. O stay a while and I will die with thee, So shalt thou yield, and yet have conquered me. whose's there Pedringano? we are betrayed. My Lord away with her, take her aside, O sir forbear, your valour is already tried. Quickly dispatch my masters, What will you murder me? I thus, and thus, these are the fruits of love. O save his life and let me die for him, O save him brother, save him Balthazar: I loved Horatio but he loved not me. But Balthazar loves Bel-imperia. Although his life were still ambitious proud, Yet is heat the highest now he is dead. Murder, murder, help Hieronimo help. Come stop her mouth away with her. What out cries pluck me from my naked bed, And chill my throbbing heart with trembling fear, Which never danger yet could daunt before. Who calls Hieronimo? speak, here I am: I did not slumber, therefore was no dream, No, no, it was some woman cried for help, And here within this garden did she cry And in this garden must I rescue her: But stay, what murderous spectacle is this? A man hanged up and all the murderers gone, And in my bower to lay the guilt on me: This place was made for pleasure not for death. Those garments that he wears I oft have seen, Alas it is Horatio my sweet son. O no, but he that whilom was my son, O was it thou that called'st me from my bed, O speak if any spark of life remain. I am thy father, who hath slain my son? What savage monster, not of human kind, Hath here been glutted with thy harmless blood? And left thy bloody corpses dishonoured here, For me amidst this dark and deathful shades, To drown thee with an ocean of my tears. O heavens, why made you night to cover sinew? By day this deed of darkness had not been. O earth why didst thou not in time devour, The wild profaner of this sacred bower. O poor Horatio, what hadst thou misdone? To lose thy life ere life was new begun. O wicked butcher whatsoe'er thou wert, How could thou strangle virtue and desert? Ay me most wretched that have lost my joy, In losing my Horatio my sweet boy.
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)
Then thus begin our wars put forth thy hand, That it may combat with my ruder hand. Set forth thy foot to try the push of mine. But first my lookes shall combat against thine. Then ward thy selfe, I dart this kisse at thee. Thus I retort the dart thou threw stat me. Nay then to gaine the glory of the field, My twining armes shall yoake and make thee yeeld. Nay then my armes are large and strong with▪ Thus Elmes by vines are compast till they fall. O let me goe, for in my troubled eyes, Now maist thou read that life in passion dies. O stay a while and I will dye with thee, So shalt thou yeeld, and yet haue conquerd me. Whose there Pedringano? we are betraide. My Lord away with her, take her aside, O sir forbeare, your valour is already tride. Quickly dispatch my maisters, What will you murder me? I thus, and thus, these are the fruits of loue. O saue his life and let me dye for him, O saue him brother, saue him Balthazar: I loued Horatio but he loued not me. But Balthazar loues Bel-imperia. Although his life were still ambituous proud, Yet is heat the highest now he is dead. Murder, murder, helpe Hieronimo helpe. Come stop her mouth away with her. What out cries pluck me from my naked bed, And chill my throbbing hart with trembling feare, Which neuer danger yet could daunt before. Who cals Hieronimo? speak, heere I am: I did not slumber, therefore was no dreame, No, no, it was some woman cride for helpe, And heere within this garden did she And in this garden must I rescue her: But stay, what murdrous spectacle is this? A man hangd vp and all the murderers gone, And in my bower to lay the guilt on me: This place was made for pleasure not for death. Those garments that he weares I ot haue seene, Alas it is Horatio my sweet sonne. O no, but he that whilome was my sonne, O was it thou that call'dst me from my bed, O speak if any sparke of life remaine. I am thy father, who hath slaine my sonne? What sauadge monster, not of humane kinde, Hath heere beene glutted with thy harmeles blood? And left thy bloudie corpes dishonoured heere, For me amidst this darke and deathfull shades, To drowne thee with an ocean of my teares. O heauens, why made you night to couer sinue? By day this deed of darkenes had not beene. O earth why didst thou not in time deuoure, The vilde prophaner of this sacred bower. O poore Horatio, what hadst thou misdoone? To leese thy life ere life was new begun. O wicked butcher what so ere thou wert, How could thou strangle vertue and desert? Ay me most wretched that haue lost my ioy, In leesing my Horatio my sweet boy.