The Love of King David and Fair Bathsheba · chunk 29 of 30
Peele, George · published 1599 · first performed or written 1594 [1593-1594] (Annals) biblical play; history · Queen Elizabeth's Men (?) T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.67 · 522 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Stand by, until some other may inform The heart of David with a happy truth. Happiness and honour live with David's soul, Whom God hath blessed with conquest of his foes. But Cusay lives the young man Absalon? The stubborn enemies to David's peace, And all that cast their darts against his crown, Fare ever like the young man Absalon, For as he rid the woods of Ephraim (Which fought for thee as much as all thy men) His hair was tangled in a shady oak, And hanging there (by Ioab and his men) Sustained the stroke of well deserved death. Hath Absalon sustained the stroke of death? Die David for the death of Absalon, And make these cursed news the bloody darts, That through his bowels rip thy wretched breast. Hence David, walk the solitary woods, And in some cedar's shade the thunder slew, And fire from heaven hath made his branches black Sit mourning the decease of Absalon, Against the body of that blasted plant In thousand shivers break thy ivory Lute, Hanging thy stringless harp upon his boughs, And through the hollow sapless sounding trunk, Bellow the torments that perplex thy soul. There let the winds sit sighing till they burst, Let tempest muffled with a cloud of pitch, Threaten the forests with her hellish face, And (mounted fiercely on her iron wings) Rend up the wretched engine by the roots That held my dearest Absalon to death. Then let them toss my broken Lute to heaven, Even to his hands that beats me with the strings, To show how sadly his poor shepherd sings. Die Bethsabe to see thy David mourn, To hear his tunes of anguish and of hell, O help my David, help thy Bethsabe, Whose heart is pierced with thy breathy swords, And bursts with burden of ten thousand griefs. Now sits thy sorrows sucking of my blood, O that it might be poison to their powers, And that their lips might draw my bosom dry, So David's love might ease him, though she die. These violent passions come not from above, David and Bethsabe offend the highest, To mourn in this immeasurable sort. O Absalon, Absalon, O my son, my son, Would God that I had died for Absalon: But he is dead, ah dead, Absalon is dead, And David lives to die for Absalon. Why lies the Queen so prostrate on the ground? Why is this company so Tragic hewed? Why is the King now absent from his men? And marcheth not in triumph through the gates? David awake, if sleep have shut thine eyes, Sleep of affection, that thou canst not see The honour offered to the victor's head, Ioab brings conquest pierced on his spear, And joy from all the Tribes of Israel. Thou man of blood, thou sepulchre of death, Whose marble breast entomb my bowels quick, Did I not charge thee, nay entreat thy hand, Even for my sake to spare my Absalon? And hast thou now in spite of David's health, And scorn to do my heart some happiness, Given him the sword, and spilled his purple soul?
nodes 1790–1856 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 29 of 30 in this edition
Length
522 words · 680 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.667 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Stand by, vntill some other may informe The heart of Dauid with a happie truth. Happinesse and honour liue with Dauids soule, Whom God hath blest with conquest of his foes. But Cusay liues the yong man Absalon? The stubborne enemies to Dauids peace, And all that cast their darts against his crowne, Fare euer like the young man Absalon, For as he rid the woods of Ephraim (Which fought for thee as much as all thy men) His haire was tangled in a shadie oake, And hanging there (by Ioab and his men) Sustaind the stroke of well deserued death. Hath Absalon sustaind the stroke of death? Die Dauid for the death of Absalon, And make these cursed newes the bloudy darts, That through his bowels rip thy wretched breast. Hence Dauid, walke the solitarie woods, And insome Caedars shade the thunder slew, And fire from heauen hath made his branches blacke Sit mourning the decease of Absalon, Against the body of that blasted plant In thousand shiuers breake thy yuorie Lute, Hanging thy stringlesse harpe vpon his boughs, And through the hollow saplesse sounding truncke, Bellow the torments that perplexe thy soule. There let the winds sit sighing till they burst, Let tempest mufled with a cloud of pitch, Threaten the forrests with her hellish face, And (mounted fiercely on her yron wings) Rend vp the wretched engine by the roots That held my dearest Absalon to death. Then let them tosse my broken Lute to heauen, Euen to his hands that beats me with the strings, To shew how sadly his poore sheepeheard sings. Die Bethsabe to see thy Dauid mourne, To heare his tunes of anguish and of hell, O helpe my Dauid, helpe thy Bethsabe, Whose heart is pierced with thy breathie swords, And bursts with burthen of tenne thousand greefes. Now sits thy sorrowes sucking of my bloud, O that it might be poison to their powers, And that their lips might draw my bosome drie, So Dauids loue might ease him, though she die. These violent passions come not from aboue, Dauid and Bethsabe offend the highest, To mourne in this immeasurable sort. O Absalon, Absalon, O my sonne, my sonne, Would God that I had died for Absalon: But he is dead, ah dead, Absalon is dead, And Dauid liues to die for Absalon. Why lies the Queene so prostrate on the ground? Why is this companie so Tragicke hew'd? Why is the King now absent from his men? And marcheth not in triumph through the gates? Dauid awake, if sleepe haue shut thine eies, Sleepe of affection, that thou canst not see The honour offerd to the victors head, Ioab brings conquest pierced on his speare, And ioy from all the Tribes of Israel. Thou man of bloud, thou sepulchre of death, Whose marble breast intombe my bowels quicke, Did I not charge thee, nay intreat thy hand, Euen for my sake to spare my Absalon? And hast thou now in spight of Dauids health, And skorne to doe my heart some happinesse, Giuen him the sword, and spilt his purple soule?