Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
What doleful sight, what ruthful spectacle Hath fortune offered to my hapless heart? My father slain with such a fatal sword, My mother murdered by a mortal wound? What Thracian dog, what barbarous Myrmidon, Would not relent at such a ruthful case? What fierce Achilles, what hard stony flint, Would not bemoan this mournful Tragedy? Locrine the map of magnanimity, Lies slaughtered in this foul accursed cave, Estrild the perfect pattern of renown, Nature's sole wonder, in whose bewteous breasts All heavenly grace and virtue was enshrined, Both massacred are dead within this cave, And with them dies fair Pallas and sweet love. Here lies a sword, and Sabren hath a heart, This blessed sword shall cut my cursed heart, And bring my soul unto my parents ghosts, That they that live and view our Tragedy, May mourn our case with mournful plaudities. Ay me, my virgin's hands are too too weak, To penetrate the bulwark of my breast, My fingers used to tune the amorous lute, Are not of force to hold this steely glaive, So I am liest to wail my parent's death, Not able for to work my proper death. Ah Locrine honoured for thy nobleness. Ah Estrild, famous for thy constancy. Il may they fare that wrought your mortal ends. Search soldiers search, find Locrine and his love, Find the proud strumpet Humbers concubine, That I may change those her so pleasing looks, To pale and ignominious aspect. Find me the issue of their cursed love, Find me young Sabren, Locrine's only joy, That I may glut my mind with lukewarm blood, Swiftly distilling from the Bastard's breast, My father's ghost still haunts me for revenge, Crying, revenge my overhastened death, My brother's exile, and mine own divorce, Banish remorse clean from my brazen heart, All mercy from mine adamantine breasts. Nor doth thy husband lovely Guendoline, That wonted was to guide our stayless steps, Enjoy this light; see where he murdered lies: By luckless lot and froward frowning fate, And by him lies his lovely paramour Fair Estrild gored with a dismal sword, And as it seems, both murdered by themselves, Clasping each other in their feebled arms, With loving zeal, as if for company Their uncontented corpses were yet content To pass soul Styx in Charon's ferry-boat. And hath proud Estrild then prevented me, Hath she escaped Guendoline's wrath, Violently by cutting off her life? Would God she had the monstrous hydra's lives, That every hour she might have died a death Worse than the swing of old Ixion's wheel, And every hour revive to die again, As Titius bound to houseless Caucason, Doth feed the substance of his own mishap, And every day for want of food doth die, And every night doth live again to die. But stay, methinks I hear some fainting voice, Mournfully weeping for their luckless death.
nodes 1738–1803 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 30 of 31 in this edition
Length
478 words · 678 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.836 (cosine to the topic centroid)
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)
What dolefull sight, what ruthful spectacle Hath fortune offred to my haplesse hart? My father slaine with such a fatall sword, My mother murthred by a mortall wound? What Thracian dog, what barbarous Mirmidon, Would not relent at such a ruthfull case? What fierce Achilles, what hard stonie flint, Would not bemone this mournfull Tragedie? Locrine the map of magnanimiti, Lies slaughtered in this foule accursed caue, Estrild the perfect patterne of renowne, Natures sole wonder, in whose bewteous brests All heauenly grace and vertue was inshrinde, Both massacred are dead within this caue, And with them dies faire Pallas and sweet loue. Here lies a sword, and Sabren hath a heart, This blessed sword shall cut my cursed heart, And bring my soule vnto my parents ghoasts, That they that liue and view our Tragedie, May mourne our case with mournfull plaudities. Ay me, my virgins hands are too too weake, To penetrate the bullwarke of my brest, My fingers vsde to tune the amorous lute, Are not of force to hold this steely glaine, So I am liet to waile my parents death, Not able for to worke my proper death. Ah Locrine honord for thy noblenesse. Ah Estrild, famous for thy constancie. Il may they fare that wrought your mortall ends. Search souldiers search, find Locrin and his loue, Find the proud strumpet Humbers concubine, That I may change those her so pleasing lookes, To pale and ignominious aspect. Find me the issue of their cursed loue, Find me yoong Sabren, Locrines only ioy, That I may glut my mind with lukewarme blood, Swiftly distilling from the bastards brest, My fathers ghoast stil haunts me for reuenge, Crying, reuenge my ouerhastened death, My brothers exile, and mine owne diuorce, Banish remorse cleane from my brazen heart, All mercie from mine adaminiue brests. Nor doth thy husband louely Guendoline, That wonted was to guide our stailese steps, Enioy this light; see where he murdred lies: By lucklesse lot and froward frowning fate, And by him lies his louely paramour Faire Estrild goared with a dismall sword, And as it seemes, both murdred by themselues, Clasping each other in their feebled armes, VVith louing zeale, as if for companie Their vncontented corpes were yet content To passe soule Stix in Chrns ferry-boat. And hath proud Estrild then preuented me Hath she escaped Guendlins wrath, Violently by cutting off her life? VVould God she had the monstrous Hidrs liues, That euery houre she might haue died a death VVorse then the swing of old Ixions wheele, And euery houre reuiue to die againe, As Titius bound to houses Caucas, Doth feed the substance of his owne mishap, And euery day for want of foode doth die, And euery night doth liue againe to die. But staie, mee thinks I heare some fainting voice, Mournfully weeping for their lucklesse death.