The Spanish Tragedy (Hieronimo is Mad Again) · chunk 24 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 · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Well, what of him? O Lord sir, he went the wrong way, the fellow had a fair commission to the contrary. Sir, here is his passport, I pray you sir, we have done him wrong. I warrant thee, give it me. you will stand between the gallows and me. ay, I. I thank your L. worship. And yet though some what nearer me concerns, I will to ease the grief that I sustain, Take truce with sorrow while I read on this. My Lord, I write as mine extremes require, That you would labour my delivery: If you neglect, my life is desperate, And in my death I shall reveal the troth. You know my Lord, I slew him for your sake, And was confederate with the Prince and you, Won by rewards and hopeful promises, I hope to murder Don Horatio too. holp he to murder mine Horatio, And actors in th'accursed Tragedy. Wast thou Lorenzo, Balthazar and thou, Of whom my Son, my Son deserved so well, What have I heard, what have mine eyes beheld? O sacred heavens, may it come to pass, That such a monstrous and detested deed, So closely smothered, and so long concealed, Shall thus by this be venged or revealed. Now see I what I durst not then suspect, That Bel-imperia's Letter was not feigned, Nor feigned she though falsely they have wronged, Both her, myself, Horatio, and themselves. Now may I make compare twixt hers and this, Of every accident, I near could find Till now, and now I feelingly perceive, They did what heaven unpunished would not leave. O false Lorenzo, are these thy flattering looks? Is this this honour that thou didst my Son? And Balthazar bane to thy soul and me, Was this the ransom he reserved thee for? Woe to the cause of these constrained wars, Woe to thy baseness and captivity, Woe to thy birth, thy body and thy soul, Thy cursed father, and thy conquered self: And band with bitter execrations be The day and place where he did pity thee. But wherefore waste I mine unfruitful words? When nought but blood will satisfy my woes: I will go plain me to my Lord the King, And cry aloud for justice through the Court. Wearing the flints with these my withered feet, And either purchase justice by entreats, Or tire them all with my revenging threats. So that you say this herb will purge the eye And this the head, ah but none of them will purge the heart: No, there's no medicine left for my disease, Nor any physic to recure the dead: Horatio, O where's Horatio. Good Madam, affright not thus yourself, With outrage for your son Horatio. He sleeps in quiet in the Elysian fields. Why did I not give you gowns and goodly things, Bought you a whistle and a whipstalk too: To be revenged on their villainies. madam these humours do torment my soul.
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)
Wel, what of him? O Lord sir, he went the wrong way, the fellow had a faire commission to the contrary. Sir, heere is his pasport, I pray you sir, we haue done him wrong. I warrant thee, giue it me. you will stand between the gallowes and me. I, I. I thank your L. worship. And yet though some what neerer me concernes, I will to ease the greefe that I sustaine, Take truce with sorrow while I read on this. My Lord, I write as mine extreames requirde, That you would labour my deliuerie: If you neglect, my life is desperate, And in my death I shall reueale the troth. You know my Lord, I slew him for your sake, And was confeder ate with the Prince and you, Wonne by rewards and hopefull promises, I hope to murder Don Horatio too. Holpe he to murder mine Horatio, And actors in th'accursed Tragedie. Wast thou Lorenzo, Balthazar and thou, Of whom my Sonne, my Sonne deseru'd so well, What haue I heard, what haue mine eies behelde? O sacred heauens, may it come to passe, That such a monstrous and detested deed, So closely smootherd, and so long conceald, Shall thus by this be venged or reueald. Now see I what I durst not then suspect, That Bel-imperias Letter was not fainde, Nor fained she though falsly they haue wrongd, Both her, my selfe, Horati, and themselues. Now may I make compare twixt hers and this, Of euerie accident, I neere could finde Till now, and now I feelingly perceiue, They did what heauen vnpunisht would not leaue. O false Lorenzo, are these thy flattering lookes? Is this this honour that thou didst my Sonne? And Balthazar bane to thy soule and me, Was this the ransome he reseru'd thee for? Woe to the cause of these constrained warres, Woe to thy basenes and captiuitie, Woe to thy birth, thy body and thy soule, Thy cursed father, and thy conquerd selfe: And band with bitter execrations be The day and place where he did pittie thee. But wherefore waste I mine vnfruitfull words? When naught but blood will satisfie my woes: I will goe plaine me to my Lord the King, And cry aloud for iustice through the Court. Wearing the flints with these my withered feet, And either purchase iustice by intreats, Or tire them all with my reuenging threats. So that you say this hearb will purge the eye And this the head, ah but none of them wil purge the hart: No, thers no medicine left for my disease, Nor any phisick to recure the dead: Horatio, O wheres Horatio. Good Madam, affright not thus your selfe, With outrage for your sonne Horatio. He sleepes in quiet in the Elizian fields. Why did I not giue you gownes and goodly things, Bought you a whistle and a whipstalke too▪ To be reuenged on their villanies. Madame these humors doe torment my soule.