Marston, John · published 1602 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Then, here, Piero, is Andrugio's head, Royally casked in a helm of steel: Give me thy love, and take it. My dauntless soul Hath that unbounded vigour in his spirits, That it can bear more rank indignity, With less impatience, than thy cankered hate Can sting and venom his untainted worth, With the most viperous sound of malice. Strike, O, let no glimpse of honour light thy thoughts, If there be any heat of royal breath Creeping in thy veins, O stifle it. Be still thyself, bloody and treacherous. Fame not thy house with an admired act Of princely pity. Piero, I am come, To soil thy house with an eternal blot Of savage cruelty; strike, or bid me strike. I pray my death; that thy near dying shame Might live immortal to posterity. Come, be a princely hangman, stop my breath. O dread thou shame, no more than I dread death. We are amazed, our royal spirits numbed, In stiff astonished wonder at thy prowess, Most mighty, valiant, and high towering heart. We blush, and turn our hate upon ourselves, For hating such an unpeered excellence. I joy my state: him whom I loathed before, That now I honour, love; nay more, adore. But stay: what tragic spectacle appears, Whose body bear you in that mournful hearse? The breathless trunk of young Antonio. Antonio (ay me) my Lord, my love, my Sweet precious issue of most honoured blood, Rich hope, ripe virtue, O untimely loss. Come hither friend. pray do not weep: Why, I am glad he's dead, he shall not see His fathers vanquished, by his enemy. even in princely honour, nay pree speak. How died the wretched boy? My Lord I hope he died yet like my son, i'faith. Alas, my Lord He died unforced, I trust, and valiantly. Poor gentleman, being Did his hand shake, or his eye look dull, His thoughts reel, fearful when he struck the stroke? And if they did, I'll rend them out the hearse, Rip up his cerecloth, mangle his bleak face; That when he comes to heaven, the powers divine Shall near take notice that he was my son. I'll quite disclaim his birth: nay pree speak: And 'twere not hooped with steel, my breast would break. O that my spirit in a sigh could mount, Into the Sphere, where thy sweet soul doth rest. O that my tears, bedewing thy wan cheek, Could make new spirit sprout in thy could blood. Verily, he looks as pitifully, as a poor Iohn: as I am true knight, I could weep like a stoned horse. Villain, 'tis thou hast murdered my son. Thy unrelenting spirit (thou black dog, That took'st no passion of his fatal love) Hath forced him give his life untimely end. Oh that my life, her love, my dearest blood Would but redeem one minute of his breath.
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)
Then, here, Piero, is Andrugios head, Royally casked in a helme of steele: Giue me thy loue, and take it. My dauntlesse soule Hath that vnbounded vigor in his spirits, That it can beare more ranke indignitie, With lesse impatience, then thy cancred hate Can sting and venome his vntainted worth, With the most viperous sound of malice. Strike, O, let no glimse of honour light thy thoughts, If there be any heat of royall breath Creeping in thy vaines, O stifle it. Be still thy selfe, bloodie and trecherous. Fame not thy house with an admired acte Of princely pittie. Piero, I am come, To soyle thy house with an eternall blot Of sauage crueltie; strike, or bid me strike. I pray my death; that thy nere dying shame Might liue immortall to posteritie. Come, be a princely hangman, stoppe my breath. O dread thou shame, no more then I dread death. We are amaz'd, our royall spirits numm'd, In stiffe astonisht wonder at thy prowesse, Most mightie, valiant, and high towring heart. We blush, and turne our hate vpon our selues, For hating such an vnpeer'd excellence. I ioy my state: him whome I loath'd before, That now I honour, loue; nay more, adore. But stay: what tragick spectacle appeares, Whose bodie beare you in that mournefull hearse? The breathlesse trunke of young Antonio. Antonio (aye me) my Lord, my loue, my Sweete pretious issue of most honor'd blood, Rich hope, ripe vertue, O vntimely losse. Come hither friend. Pree thee doe not weepe: Why, I am glad hee's deade, he shall not see His fathers vanquisht, by his enemie. Euen in princely honour, nay pree thee speake. How dy'd the wretched boy? My Lord I hope he dyed yet like my sonne, ifaith. Alas, my Lord He died vnforst, I trust, and valiantly. Poore gentleman, being Did his hand shake, or his eye looke dull, His thoughts reele, fearefull when he struck the stroke? And if they did, Ile rend them out the hearse, Rip vp his cearecloth, mangle his bleake face; That when he comes to heauen, the powers diuine Shall nere take notice that he was my sonne. Ile quite disclaime his birth: nay pree thee speake: And twere not hoopt with steel, my brest wold break. O that my spirit in a sigh could mount, Into the Spheare, where thy sweet soule doth rest. O that my teares, bedeawing thy wan cheeke, Could make new spirit sprout in thy could blood. Verely, he lookes as pittifully, as a poore Iohn: as I am true knight, I could weepe like a ston'd horse. Villaine, tis thou hast murdred my sonne. Thy vnrelenting spirit (thou black dogge, That took'st no passion of his fatall loue) Hath forst him giue his life vntimely end. Oh that my life, her loue, my dearest blood Would but redeeme one minute of his breath.