The Spanish Tragedy (Hieronimo is Mad Again) · chunk 20 of 41
Kyd, Thomas · published 1592 · first performed or written 1587 [1585-1589; revised c.1597(?) and 1601-2] (Annals) tragedy · Unknown T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.75 · 483 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
For this Serberine, and thou shalt hait. So, there he lies, my promise is performed. Hark Gentlemen, this is a Pistol-shot. And here's one slain, stay the murderer. Now by the sorrows of the souls in hell, Who first lays hand on me, i'll be his Priest, Sirrah, confess, and therein play the Priest, Why hast thou thus unkindly killed the man? Why, because he walked abroad so late. Come sir, you had been better kept your bed, Then have committed this misdeed so late. Come to the Marshals with the murderer. On to Hieronimos, help me here, To bring the murdered body with us too. Hieronimo, carry me before whom you will, whate'er he be i'll answer him and you, And do your worst, for I defy you all. How now my Lord, what makes you rise so soon? Fear of preventing our mishaps too late. What mischief is it that we not mistrust? Our greatest ills, we least mistrust my Lord, And in expected harms do hurt us most. Why tell me Don Lorenzo, tell me man, If ought concerns our honour and your own? Nor you nor me my Lord, but both in one. For I suspect, and the presumptions great, That by those base confederates in our fault, Touching the death of Don Horatio: We are betrayed to old Hieronimo. Betrayed Lorenzo, tush it cannot be. A guilty conscience urged with the thought, Of former evils, easily cannot err: I am persuaded, and dissuade me not, That als revealed to Hieronimo. And therefore know that I have cast it thus: But here's the Page, how now, what news with thee? My Lord, Serberine is slain. Who? Serberine my man. Your highness man my Lord. Speak Page, who murdered him? He that is apprehended for the fact. Who? Pedringano. Is Serberine slain that loved his Lord so well? Injurious villain, murderer of his friend. Hath Pedringano murdered Serberine? My Lord, let me entreat you to take the pains, To exasperate and hasten his revenge. With your complaints unto my L. the King. This their dissension breeds a greater doubt. Assure thee Don Lorenzo he shall die, Or else his Highness hardly shall deny. meanwhile, i'll haste the martial Sessions, For die he shall for this his damned deed. Why so, this fits our former policy, And thus experience bids the wise to deal. I lay the plot, he prosecutes the point, I set the trap, he breaks the worthless twigs, And sees not that wherewith the bird was limed. Thus hopeful men that mean to hold their own, Must look like fowlers to their dearest friends. He runs to kill whom I have holp to catch, And no man knows it was my reaching fatch. 'tis hard to trust unto a multitude, Or any one in mine opinion, When men themselves their secrets will reveal. Boy. My Lord. What's he?
nodes 1239–1307 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 20 of 41 in this edition
Length
483 words · 664 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.745 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
For this Serberine, and thou shalt ha'te. So, there he lyes, my promise is performde. Harke Gentlemen, this is a Pistol-shot. And heeres one slaine, stay the murderer. Now by the sorrowes of the soules in hell, Who first laies hand on me, ile be his Priest, Sirra, confesse, and therein play the Priest, Why hast thou thus vnkindely kild the man? Why, because he walkt abroad so late. Come sir, you had bene better kept your bed, Then haue committed this misdeed so late. Come to the Marshals with the murderer. On to Hieronimos, helpe me heere, To bring the murdred body with vs too. Hieronimo, carry me before whom you will, What ere he be ile answere him and you, And doe your worst, for I defie you all. How now my Lord, what makes you rise so soone? Feare of preuenting our mishaps too late. What mischiefe is it that we not mistrust? Our greatest ils, we least mistrust my Lord, And in expected harmes do hurt vs most. Why tell me Don Lorenzo, tell me man, If ought concernes our honour and your owne? Nor you nor me my Lord, but both in one. For I suspect, and the presumptions great, That by those base confederates in our fault, Touching the death of Don Horatio: We are betraide to olde Hieronimo. Betraide Lorenzo, tush it cannot be. A guiltie conscience vrged with the thought, Offormer euils, easily cannot erre: I am perswaded, and diswade me not, That als reuealed to Hieronimo. And therefore know that I haue cast it thus: But heeres the Page, how now, what newes with thee? My Lord, Serberine is slaine. Who? Serberine my man. Your Highnes man my Lord. Speak Page, who murdered him? He that is apprehended for the fact. Who? Pedringano. Is Serberine slaine that lou'd his Lord so well? Iniurious villame, murderer of his freend. Hath Pdringano murdered Serberine? My Lord, let me entreat you to take the paines, To exasperate and hasten his reuenge. With your complaints vnto my L. the King. This their dissention breeds a greater doubt. Assure thee Don Lornzo he shall dye, Or els his Highnes hardly shall deny. Meane while, ile haste the Marshall Sessions, For die he shall for this his damned deed. Why so, this fits our former pollicie, And thus experience bids the wise to deale. I lay the plot, he prosecutes the point, I set the trap, he breakes the worthles twigs, And sees not that wherewith the bird was limde. Thus hopefull men that meane to holde their owne, Must look like fowlers to their dearest freends. He runnes to kill whome I haue holpe to catch, And no man knowes it was my reaching fatch. Tis hard to trust vnto a multitude, Or any one in mine opinion, When men themselus their secrets will reueale. Boy. My Lord. Whats he?