The Love of King David and Fair Bathsheba · chunk 24 of 30
Peele, George · published 1599 · first performed or written 1594 [1593-1594] (Annals) biblical play; history · Queen Elizabeth's Men (?) unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 502 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
That leads your souls to perfect happiness. This shall he do for joy when I am King: Then fight brave captains that these joys may fly Into your bosoms with sweet victory. What angry angel sitting in these shades, Hath laid his cruel hands upon my hair, And holds my body thus twixt heaven and earth? Hath Absalon no soldier near his hand, That may untwine me this unpleasant curl, Or wound this tree that ravisheth his lord? O God behold the glory of thy hand, And choicest fruit of Nature's workmanship, Hang like a rotten branch upon this tree, Fit for the axe, and ready for the fire. Since thou withholdst all ordinary help To lose my body from this bond of death, O let my beauty fill these senseless places, With sense and power to lose me from this plague, And work some wonder to prevent his death, Whose life thou mad'st a special miracle. My lord I saw the young prince Absalon Hang by the hair upon a shady oak, And could by no means get himself unloosed, Why slewst thou not the wicked Absalon, That rebel to his father and to heaven, That so I might have given thee for thy pains ten silver sickles, and a golden waist. Not for a thousand sickles would I slay The son of David, whom his father charged, Nor thou Abisay, nor the son of Gath, Should touch with stroke of deadly violence. The charge was given in hearing of us all, And had I done it, than I know thyself, Before thou wouldst abide the king's rebuke, Wouldst have accused me as a man of death. I must not now stand trifling here with thee. Help Ioab, help, O help thy Absalon, Let not thy angry thoughts be laid in blood, In blood of him, that sometimes nourished thee, And softened thy sweet heart with friendly love, O give me once again my father's sight, My dearest father, and my princely sovereign, That shedding tears of blood before his face, The ground may witness, and the heavens record, My last submission sound and full of ruth. Rebel to nature, hate to heaven and earth, Shall I give help to him, that thirsts the soul Of his dear father, and my sovereign lord? Now see the Lord hath tangled in a tree The health and glory of thy stubborn heart, And made thy pride curbed with a senseless plant, Now Absalon how doth the Lord regard The beauty whereupon thy hope was built, And which thou thoughtst his grace did glory in? Findst thou not now with fear of instant death, That God affects not any painted shape, Or goodly parsonage, when the virtuous soul Is stuffed with nought but pride and stubbornness? But preach I to thee, while I should revenge Thy cursed sin that staineth Israel, And makes her fields blush with her children's blood? Take that as part of thy deserved plague, Which worthily no torment can inflict.
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)
That leads your soules to perfect happinesse. This shall he doe for ioy when I am King: Then fight braue captaines that these ioies may flie Into your bosomes with sweet victorie. What angrie angel sitting in these shades, Hath laid his cruell hands vpon my haire, And holds my body thus twixt heauen and earth? Hath Absalon no souldier neere his hand, That may vntwine me this vnpleasant curle, Or wound this tree that rauisheth his lord? O God behold the glorie of thy hand, And choisest fruit of Natures workemanship, Hang like a rotten branch vpon this tree, Fit for the axe, and ready for the fire. Since thou withholdst all ordinarie helpe To lose my bodie from this bond of death, O let my beautie fill these sencelesse plas, With sence and power to lose me from this plague, And worke some wonder to preuent his death, Whose life thou madst a speciall miracle. My lord I saw the young prince Absalon Hang by the haire vpon a shadie oke, And could by no meanes get himselfe vnlosde, Why slewst thou not the wicked Absalon, That rebell to his father and to heauen, That so I might haue giuen thee for thy paines Tenne siluer sickles, and a golden wast. Not for a thousand sickles would I slay The sonne of Dauid, whom his father chargd, Nor thou Abisay, nor the sonne of Gath, Should touch with stroke of deadly violence. The charge was giuen in hearing of vs all, And had I done it, then I know thy selfe, Before thou wouldst abide the Kings rebuke, Wouldst haue accus'd me as a man of death. I must not now stand trifling here with thee. Helpe Ioab, helpe, O helpe thy Absalon, Let not thy angrie thoughts be laid in bloud, In bloud of him, that sometimes nourisht thee, And softned thy sweet heart with friendly loue, O giue me once againe my fathers sight, My deerest father, and my princely soueraigne, That shedding teares of bloud before his face, The ground may witnesse, and the heauens record, My last submission sound and full of ruth. Rebell to nature, hate to heauen and earth, Shall I giue helpe to him, that thirsts the soule Of his deere father, and my soueraigne lord? Now see the Lord hath tangled in a tree The health and glorie of thy stubborne heart, And made thy pride curbd with a sencelesse plant, Now Absalon how doth the Lord regard The beautie wherevpon thy hope was built, And which thou thoughtst his grace did glorie in? Findst thou not now with feare of instant death, That God affects not any painted shape, Or goodly personage, when the vertuous soule Is stuft with naught but pride and stubbornnesse? But preach I to thee, while I should reuenge Thy cursed sinne that staineth Israel, And makes her fields blush with her childrens bloud? Take that as part of thy deserued plague, Which worthily no torment can inflict.