Dekker, Thomas · published 1600 · first performed or written 1599 [Nov 9-30, payment] (Annals) romance · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T51 Parents and children: blessing, birthrig · 495 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T51: esau, iacob, father, son, isaac, god, love, birthright, parents, thing.
Father, your choice was care, the gift divine. It had been so, if riches had been mine. But hath this golden virtue never failed? Never. O admirable; hear's a fire Hath power to thaw the very heart of death, And give stones life, by this most sacred death, See brother, here's all India in my hand. Inherit you (my Sons) that golden land. This Hat I brought away from Babylon, I robbed the soldan of it, 'tis a prize Worth twenty Empires. In this jewel lies. How, father? jewel? call you this a jewel? It's course Wool, a bald fashion, and greasy to the brim; I have bought a better Felt for a French crown forty times: Of what virtuous block is this Hat, I pray? Set it upon thy head, and with a wish, Thou in the moment on the winds swift wings, Shalt be transported into any place. A wishing Hat, and a golden mine? O Andelocia, Ampedo, now death Sounds his third summons: I must hence: these jewels To both I do bequeath; divide them not, But use them equally; never bewray What virtues are in them; for if you do, Much shame, much grief, much danger follows you. Peruse this book: farewell: behold in me The rotten strength of proud mortality. His soul is wandering to the Elysium shades. The flower that's fresh at noon, at Sunset fades. Brother, close you down his eyes, because you were his eldest; and with them close up your tears, whilst I (as all younger brothers do) shift for myself: let us mourn, because he's dead, but mourn the less, because he cannot revive: the honour we can do him, is to bury him royally, let's about it then, for i'll not melt myself to death with scalding sighs, nor drop my soul out at mine eyes, were my father an Emperor. Hence, hence, thou stoppest the tide of my true tears. True grief is dumb, though it hath open ears. Yet God send my grief a tongue, that I may have good utterance for it: Sob on, brother mine, whilst you sigh there, i'll sit & read what story my father has written here. I can get none, I can find none: where are you, master? Have I ta'en you napping? and you too? I see sorrows eyelids are made of a Dormouse skin, they seldom open, or of a miser's purse, that's always shut: So ho, master. Shadow, why how now? what's the matter? I can get none Sir, 'tis impossible. What is impossible? what canst not get? No help for my old master. Hast thou been all this while calling for help? Yes sir: he scorned all Famagosta when he was in his huffing, and now he lies puffing for wind, they say they scorn him. The poison of their scorn infects not him; He wants no help. See where he breathless lies: Brother, to what place have you borne his body?
seed 43: T48 · seed 44: T49 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Father, your choice was care, the gift diuine. It had beene so, if riches had beene mine. But hath this golden vertue neuer faild? Neuer. O admirable; heare's a fire Hath power to thaw the very heart of death, And giue stones life, by this most sacred death, See brother, heres all India in my hand. Inherite you (my Sonnes) that golden land. This Hat I brought away from Babylon, I robd the Souldan of it, tis a prize Worth twentie Empires. In this Iewell lies. How, father? Iewell? call you this a Iewell? It's course Wool, a bald fashion, and greasie to the brim; I haue bought a better Felt for a French crowne fortie times: Of what vertuous blocke is this Hat, I pray? Set it vpon thy head, and with a wish, Thou in the moment on the winds swift wings, Shalt be transported into any place. A wishing Hat, and a golden mine? O Andelocia, Ampedo, now death Sounds his third sommons: I must hence: these Iewels To both I doe bequeath; diuide them not, But vse them equally; neuer bewray What vertues are in them; for if you doe, Much shame, much griefe, much daunger followes you. Peruse this booke: farwell: behold in me The rotten strength of proud mortalitie. His soule is wandring to the Elizium shades. The flowre thats fresh at noone, at Sun-set fades. Brother, close you downe his eyes, because you were his eldest; and with them close vp your teares, whilst I (as all yonger brothers doe) shift for my selfe: let vs mourne, because hees dead, but mourne the lesse, because he cannot reuiue: the honour we can doe him, is to burie him royally, lets about it then, for ile not melt my selfe to death with scalding sighes, nor drop my soule out at mine eyes, were my father an Emperour. Hence, hence, thou stop'st the tide of my true teares. True griefe is dumbe, though it hath open eares. Yet God send my griefe a tongue, that I may haue good vtterance for it: Sob on, brother mine, whilst you sigh there, ile sit & read what Storie my father has written here. I can get none, I can find none: where are you, master? Haue I tane you napping? and you too? I sée sorrowes eye-lids are made of a Dor-mouse skin, they seldome open, or of a misers purse, that's alwaies shut: So ho, master. Shaddow, why how now? whats the matter? I can get none Sir, tis impossible. What is impossible? what canst not get? No helpe for my old master. Hast thou béene all this while calling for helpe? Yes sir: he scornd all Famagosta when he was in his huffing, and now hee lies puffing for wind, they say they scorne him. The poyson of their scorne infects not him; He wants no helpe. Sée where he breathles lies: Brother, to what place haue you borne his body?