Peele, George / Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1594 [Jan 23 (24); poss. written 1590-1592] (Annals) tragedy · Pembroke's Men (?) unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 490 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
Come Lucius come, Stay not to talk with them. So now go tell and if thy tongue can speak, Who t' was that cut thy tongue and ravished thee. Writ down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, And if thy stumps will let thee play the Scribe. See how with signs and tokens she can scowl. Go home, Call for sweet water, wash thy hands. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash. And so let's leave her to her silent walks. And t' were my cause, I should go hang myself. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord. Who is this, my Niece that flies away so fast? Cousin a word, where is your husband? If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me; If I do wake, some Planet strike me down, That I may slumber in eternal sleep. Speak gentle Niece, what stern ungentle hands Hath lopped, and hewed, and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet Ornaments Whose circling shadows, Kings have sought to sleep in And might not gain so great a happiness As half thy Love: Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a Crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirred with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy Rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath. But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee, And lest thou shouldst detect them, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame: And notwithstanding all this loss of blood, As from a Conduit with their issuing Spouts, Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face, Blushing to be encountered with a Cloud, Shall I speak for thee? shall I say 'tis so? Oh that I knew thy hart, and knew the beast That I might rail at him to ease my mind. Sorrow concealed, like an Oven stopped, Doth burn the hart to Cinders where it is. Fair Philomela she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious Sampler sowed her mind. But lovely Niece, that mean is cut from thee, A craftier Tereus hast thou met withal, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, That could have better sowed than Philomela. Oh had the monster seen those Lily hands, Tremble like Aspen leaves upon a Lute, And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touched them for his life. Or had he heard the heavenly Harmony, Which that sweet tongue hath made: He would have dropped his knife and fell asleep, As Cerberus at the Thracian Poets feet. Come, let us go, and make thy father blind, For such a sight will blind a father's eye. One hours' storm will drown the fragrant meads, What, will whole months of tears thy Father's eyes? Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee: Oh could our mourning ease thy misery.
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)
Come Lucius come, Stay not to talke with them. So now goe tell and if thy tongue can ſpeake, Who t' was that cut thy tongue and rauiſht thee. Write downe thy mind, bewray thy meaning ſo, And if thy ſtumpes will let thee play the Scribe. See how with ſignes and tokens ſhe can ſcowle. Goe home, Call for ſweet water, waſh thy hands. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to waſh. And ſo let's leaue her to her ſilent walkes. And t' were my cauſe, I ſhould goe hang my ſelfe. If thou had'ſt hands to helpe thee knit the cord. Who is this, my Neece that flies away ſo faſt? Coſen a word, where is your husband? If I do dreame, would all my wealth would wake me; If I doe wake, ſome Planet ſtrike me downe, That I may ſlumber in eternall ſleepe. Speake gentle Neece, what ſterne vngentle hands Hath lopt, and hew'd, and made thy body bare Of her two branches, thoſe ſweet Ornaments Whoſe circkling ſhadowes, Kings haue ſought to ſleep in And might not gaine ſo great a happines As halfe thy Loue: Why dooſt not ſpeake to me? Alas, a Crimſon riuer of warme blood, Like to a bubling fountaine ſtir'd with winde, Doth riſe and fall betweene thy Roſed lips, Comming and going with thy hony breath. But ſure ſome Tereus hath defloured thee, And leaſt thou ſhould'ſt detect them, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'ſt away thy face for ſhame: And notwithſtanding all this loſſe of blood, As from a Conduit with their iſſuing Spouts, Yet doe thy cheekes looke red as Titans face, Bluſhing to be encountred with a Cloud, Shall I ſpeake for thee? ſhall I ſay 'tis ſo? Oh that I knew thy hart, and knew the beaſt That I might raile at him to eaſe my mind. Sorrow concealed, like an Ouen ſtopt, Doth burne the hart to Cinders where it is. Faire Philomela ſhe but loſt her tongue, And in a tedious Sampler ſowed her minde. But louely Neece, that meane is cut from thee, A craftier Tereus haſt thou met withall, And he hath cut thoſe pretty fingers off, That could haue better ſowed then Philomel. Oh had the monſter ſeene thoſe Lilly hands, Tremble like Aſpen leaues vpon a Lute, And make the ſilken ſtrings delight to kiſſe them, He would not then haue toucht them for his life. Or had he heard the heauenly Harmony, Which that ſweet tongue hath made: He would haue dropt his knife and fell aſleepe, As Cerberus at the Thracian Poets feete. Come, let vs goe, and make thy father blinde, For ſuch a ſight will blinde a fathers eye. One houres ſtorme will drowne the fragrant meades, What, will whole months of teares thy Fathers eyes? Doe not draw backe, for we will mourne with thee: Oh could our mourning eaſe thy miſery.