The Spanish Tragedy (Hieronimo is Mad Again) · chunk 31 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 · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
And art thou come Horatio from the depth, To ask for justice in this upper earth? To tell thy Father thou art unrevenged, To wring more tears from Isabella's eyes? Whose lights are dimmed with overlong laments. Go back my son, complain to Aeacus, For here's no justice, gentle boy be gone. For justice is exiled from the earth: Heronimo will bear thee company: Thy mother cries on righteous Rhadamant, For just revenge against the murderers. Alas my L. whence springs this troubled speech? But let me look on my Horatio: Sweet boy how art thou changed in deaths black shade? Had Proserpine no pity on thy youth? But suffered thy fair crimson coloured spring, With withered winter to be blasted thus? Horatio, thou art older than thy Father: Ah ruthless Father, that favour thus transforms Ah my good Lord, I am not your young Son. What, not my Son, thou then, a fury art, Sent from the empty Kingdom of black night, To summon me to make appearance: Before grim Minos and just Rhadamant. To plague Hieronimo that is remiss, And seeks not vengeance for Horatio's. death. I am a grieved man and not a Ghost, That came for justice for my murdered Son. ay, now I know thee, now thou namest my Son, Thou art the lively image of my grief, Within thy face, my sorrows I may see. Thy eyes are gummed with tears, thy cheeks are wan, Thy forehead troubled, and thy muttering lips Murmur sad words abruptly broken off, By force of windy sighs thy spirit breathes, And all this sorrow riseth for thy Son: And self same sorrow feel I for my Son. Come in old man, thou shalt to Isabel, Lean on my arm, I thee, thou me shalt stay, And thou, and I, and she will sing a song: Three parts in one, but all of discords framed, Talk not of cords, but let us now be gone, For with a cord Horatio was slain. Go Brother it is the Duke of Castiles cause, salute the Vice. roy in our name. I go. Go forth Don Pedro for thy nephew's sake, And greet the Duke of Castille. It shall be so. And now to meet these Portuguese, For as we now are, so sometimes were these, Kings and commanders of the western Indies. Welcome brave Viceroy to the Court of Spain, And welcome all his honourable train: 'tis not unknown to us, for why you come, Or have so kingly crossed the Seas: Sufficeth it in this we note the troth, And more than common love you lend to us. So is it that mine honourable Niece, For it beseems us now that it be known, Already is betrothed to Balthazar: And by appointment and our condiscent, Tomorrow are they to be married. To this intent we entertain thyself, Thy followers, their pleasure, and our peace: Speak men of Portingale, shall it be so? If I, say so: if not, say flatly no.
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)
And art thou come Horatio from the depth, To aske for iustice in this vpper earth? To tell thy Father thouart vnreueng'd, To wring more teares from Isabellas eies? Whose lights are dimd with ouer-long laments. Goe back my sonne, complaine to Eacus, For heeres no iustice, gentle boy be gone. For iustice is exiled from the earth: Heronimo will beare thee company: Thy mother cries on righteous Radamant, For iust reuenge against the murderers. Alas my L. whence sprigs this troubled speech? But let me looke on my : Sweet boy how art thou chang'd in deaths black shade? Had Proserpine no pittie on thy youth? But suffered thy fair crimson colourd spring, With withered winter to be blasted thus? Horatio, thou art older then thy Father: Ah ruthlesse Father, that fauour thus transformess Ah my good Lord, I am not your yong Sonne. What, not my Sone, thou then, a furie art, Sent from the emptie Kingdome of blacke night, To summon me to make appearance: Before grim Mynos and iust Radamant. To plague Hieronimo that is remisse, And seekes not vengeance for Horatioes. death. I am a greeued man and not a Ghost, That came for iustice for my murdered Sonne. I, now I know thee, now thou namest my Sonne, Thou art the liuely image of my griefe, Within thy face, my sorrowes I may see. Thy eyes are gum'd with teares, thy cheekes are wan, Thy forehead troubled, and thy muttring lips Murmure sad words abruptly broken off, By force of windie sighes thy spirit breathes, And all this sorrow riseth for thy Sonne: And selfe same sorrow feele I for my Sonne. Come in old man, thou shalt to Izabell, Leane on my arme, I thee, thou me shalt stay, And thou, and I, and she will sing a song: Three parts in one, but all of discords fram'd, Talke not of cords, but let vs now be gone, For with a cord Horatio was slaine. Go Brother it is the Duke of Castiles cause, salute the Vice. roy in our name. I go. Go forth Don Pedro for thy Nephews sake, And greet the Duke of Castile. It shall be so. And now to meet these Portaguise, For as we now are, so sometimes were these, Kings and commanders of the westerne Indies. Welcome braue Vice-roy to the Court of Spaine, And welcome all his honorable traine: Tis not vnknowne to vs, for why you come, Or haue so kingly crost the Seas: Suffiseth it in this we note the troth, And more then common loue you lend to vs. So is it that mine honorable Nece, For it beseemes vs now that it be knowne, Already is betroth'd to Balhazar: And by appointment and our condiscent, To morrow are they to be married. To this intent we entertaine thy selfe, Thy followers, their pleasure, and our peace: Speak men of Portingale, shall it be so? If I, say so: if not, say flatly no.