The Spanish Tragedy (Hieronimo is Mad Again) · chunk 39 of 41
Kyd, Thomas · published 1592 · first performed or written 1587 [1585-1589; revised c.1597(?) and 1601-2] (Annals) tragedy · Unknown unassigned nearest T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma · 513 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
Tyrant, desist soliciting vain suits, Relentless are mine ears to thy laments, As thy butcher is pitiless and base, Which seized on my Erasto, harmless knight. Yet by thy power thou thinkest to command, And to thy power Perseda doth obey: But were she able, thus she would revenge Thy treacheries on thee ignoble Prince: And on herself she would be thus revenged Well said old Marshal, this was bravely done. But Bel-imperia plays Perseda well. were this in earnest Bel-imperia, You would be better to my Son then so. But now what follows for Hieronimo? Marry this follows for Hieronimo. Here break we off our sundry languages, And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue. Happily you think, but bootless are your thoughts, That this is fabulously counterfeit, And that we do as all Tragedians do. To die today, for (fashioning our scene) The death of Ajax, or some Roman peer, And in a minute starting up again, Revive to please to morrows audience. No Princes, know I am Hieronimo, The hopeless Father of a hapless Son, Whose tongue is tuned to tell his latest tale, Not to excuse gross errors in the play, I see your looks urge instance of these words, Behold the reason urging me to this, See here my show, look on this spectacle: Here lay my hope, and here my hope hath end: Here lay my heart, and here my heart was slain: Here lay my treasure, here my treasure lost: Here lay my bliss, and here my bliss bereft. But hope, heart, treasure, joy, and bliss: All fled, failed, died, yea all decayed with this. From forth these wounds came breath that gave me life, They murdered me that made these fatal marks: The cause was love, whence grew this mortal hate, The hate, Lorenzo and young Balthazar: The love, my son to Bel-imperia. But night the coverer of accursed crimes, With pitchy silence hushed these traitors' harms, And lent them leave, for they had sorted leisure, To take advantage in my Garden plot, Upon my Son, my dear Horatio: There merciless they butchered up my boy, In black dark night, to pale dim cruel death. He shrieks, I heard, and yet methinks I hear, His dismal outcry echo in the air: With soonest speed I hasted to the noise, Where hanging on a tree, I found my son. Through girt with wounds, and slaughtered as you see, And grieved I (think you) at this spectacle? Speak Portaguise, whose losse resembles mine, If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar, 'tis like I wailed for my Horatio. And you my L. whose reconciled son, Marched in a net, and thought himself unseen, And rated me for brainsick lunacy, With God amend that mad Hieronimo, How can you brook our plays catastrophe? And here behold this bloody handkercher, Which at Horatio's death I weeping dipped, Within the river of his bleeding wounds. It as propitious, see I have reserved, And never hath it left my bloody heart, Soliciting remembrance of my vow. With these, O these accursed murderers,
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)
Tyrant, desist soliciting vaine sutes, Relentles are mine eares to thy laments, As thy butcher is pittilesse and base, VVhich seazd on my Erasto, harmelesse knight. Yet by thy power thou thinkest to commaund, And to thy power Perseda doth obey: But were she able, thus she would reuenge Thy treacheries on thee ignoble Prince: And on herselfe she would be thus reuengd VVell said olde Marshal, this was brauely done. But Bel-imperia plaies Perseda well. were this in earnest Bel-imperia, You would be better to my Sonne then so. But now what followes for Hieronimo? Marrie this followes for Hieronimo. Heere breake we off our sundrie languages, And thus conclude I in our vulgare tung. Happely you think, but bootles are your thoughts, That this is fabulously counterfeit, And that we doo as all Tragedians doo. To die to day, for (fashioning our scene) The death of Aiax, or some Romaine peere, And in a minute starting vp againe, Reuiue to please to morrowes audience. No Princes, know I am Hieronimo, The hopeles Father of a haples Sonne, Whose tung is tun'd to tell his latest tale, Not to excuse grosse errors in the play, I see your lookes vrge instance of these words, Beholde the reason vrging me to this, See heere my shew, look on this spectacle: Heere lay my hope, and heere my hope hath end: Heere lay my hart, and heere my hart was slaine: Heere lay my treasure, heere my treasure lost: Heere lay my blisse, and heere my blisse bereft. But hope, hart, treasure, ioy, and blisse: All fled, faild, died, yea all decaide with this. From forth these wounds came breath that gaue me life, They murdred me that made these fatall markes: The cause was loue, whence grew this mortall hate▪ The hate, Lorenzo and yong Balthazar: The loue, my sonne to Bel-imperia. But night the couerer of accursed crimes, With pitchie silence husht these traitors harmes, And lent them leaue, for they had sorted leasure, To take aduantage in my Garden plot, Vpon my Sonne, my deere Horatio: There mercilesse they butcherd vp my boy, In black darke night, to pale dim cruell death. He shrikes, I heard, and yet me thinks I heare, His dismall out-cry eccho in the aire: With soonest speed I hasted to the noise, Where hanging on a tree, I found my sonne. Through girt with wounds, and slaughtred as you see, And greeued I (think you) at this spectacle? Speak Portaguise, whose losse resembles mine, If thou canst weep vpon thy Balthazar, Tis like I wailde for my Horatio. And you my L. whose reconciled sonne, Marcht in a net, and thought him selfe vnseene, And rated me for brainsicke lunacie, With God amend that mad Hieronimo, How can you brook our plaies catastrophe? And heere beholde this bloudie hand-kercher▪ Which at Horatios death I weeping dipt, Within the riuer of his bleeding wounds. It as propitious, see I haue reserued, And neuer hath it left my bloody hart, Soliciting remembrance of my vow. With these, O these accursed murderers,