2 Henry the Sixth (The First Part of the Contention betwixt the Two Famous Houses of York and Lancaster) · chunk 31 of 49
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1590 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men (?) T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.73 · 486 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
If I depart from thee, I cannot live, And in thy sight to dye, what were it else, But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap? here could I breathe my soul into the air, As mild and gentle as the Cradle-babe, Dying with mother's dug between its lips. Where from thy sight, I should be raging mad, And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes: To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth: So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul, Or I should breathe it so into thy body, And then it lived in sweet Elysium. To dye by thee, were but to dye in jest, From thee to dye, were torture more than death: Oh let me stay, befall what may befall. Away: Though parting be a fretful corrosive, It is applied to a deathful wound. To France sweet Suffolk: Let me hear from thee: For whatsoe'er thou art in this world's Globe, I'll have an Iris that shall find thee out. I go. And take my heart with thee. A jewel locked into the woefull'st Cask, That ever did contain a thing of worth, Even as a split Bark, so sunder we: This way fall I to death. This way for me. How fares my Lord? Speak Beauford to thy Sovereign. If thou be'st death, I'll give thee England's Treasure, Enough to purchase such another Island, So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Where death's approach is seen so terrible. Beauford, it is thy Sovereign speaks to thee. Bring me unto my Trial when you will. Died he not in his bed? Where should he dye? Can I make men live where they will or no? Oh torture me no more, I will confess. Alive again? Then show me where he is, I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him. He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. Comb down his hair; look, look, it stands upright, Like Lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul: Give me some drink, and bid the Apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. Oh thou eternal mover of the heavens, Look with a gentle eye upon this Wretch, Oh beat away the busy meddling Fiend, That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul, And from his bosom purge this black despair. See how the pangs of death do make him grin. Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be. Lord Cardinal, if thou thinkest on heaven's bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. He dies and makes no sign: Oh God forgive him. So bad a death, argues a monstrous life. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. Close up his eyes, and draw the Curtain close, And let us all to Meditation.
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William
Publication year (edition)
1623
First performance / composition (Annals)
c.1590
First performance (BritDrama)
1591 [1587-1592]
Company (BritDrama)
Pembroke's Men (?)
Genre (British Drama)
history
Play type
Adult Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 224 · TCP A11954 · DEEP 5081.21
Edition role
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1890–1949 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 31 of 49 in this edition
Length
486 words · 633 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.729 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
If I depart from thee, I cannot liue, And in thy ſight to dye, what were it elſe, But like a pleaſant ſlumber in thy lap? Heere could I breath my ſoule into the ayre, As milde and gentle as the Cradle-babe, Dying with mothers dugge betweene it's lips. Where from thy ſight, I ſhould be raging mad, And cry out for thee to cloſe vp mine eyes: To haue thee with thy lippes to ſtop my mouth: So ſhould'ſt thou eyther turne my flying ſoule, Or I ſhould breathe it ſo into thy body, And then it liu'd in ſweete Elizium. To dye by thee, were but to dye in ieſt, From thee to dye, were torture more then death: Oh let me ſtay, befall what may befall. Away: Though parting be a fretfull coroſiue, Ir is applyed to a deathfull wound. To France ſweet Suffolke: Let me heare from thee: For whereſoere thou art in this worlds Globe, Ile haue an Iris that ſhall finde thee out. I go. And take my heart with thee. A Iewell lockt into the wofulſt Caske, That euer did containe a thing of worth, Euen as a ſplitted Barke, ſo ſunder we: This way fall I to death. This way for me. How fare's my Lord? Speake Beauford to thy Soueraigne. If thou beeſt death, Ile giue thee Englands Treaſure, Enough to purchaſe ſuch another Iſland, So thou wilt let me liue, and feele no paine. Ah, what a ſigne it is of euill life, Where death's approach is ſeene ſo terrible. Beauford, it is thy Soueraigne ſpeakes to thee. Bring me vnto my Triall when you will. Dy'de he not in his bed? Where ſhould he dye? Can I make men liue where they will or no? Oh torture me no more, I will confeſſe. Aliue againe? Then ſhew me where he is, Ile giue a thouſand pound to looke vpon him. He hath no eyes, the duſt hath blinded them. Combe downe his haire; looke, looke, it ſtands vpright, Like Lime-twigs ſet to catch my winged ſoule: Giue me ſome drinke, and bid the Apothecarie Bring the ſtrong poyſon that I bought of him. Oh thou eternall mouer of the heauens, Looke with a gentle eye vpon this Wretch, Oh beate away the buſie medling Fiend, That layes ſtrong ſiege vnto this wretches ſoule, And from his boſome purge this blacke diſpaire. See how the pangs of death do make him grin. Diſturbe him not, let him paſſe peaceably. Peace to his ſoule, if Gods good pleaſure be. Lord Card'nall, if thou think'ſt on heauens bliſſe, Hold vp thy hand, make ſignall of thy hope. He dies and makes no ſigne: Oh God forgiue him. So bad a death, argues a monſtrous life. Forbeare to iudge, for we are ſinners all. Cloſe vp his eyes, and draw the Curtaine cloſe, And let vs all to Meditation.