Antonio's Revenge (2 Antonio and Mellida) · chunk 1 of 29
Marston, John · published 1602 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) tragedy · Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 515 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
THE rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps The fluent summer's vain: and drizzling sleet Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numbed earth, Whilst snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leaves, From the naked shuddering branch; and pills the skin From off the soft and delicate aspects. O, now, methinks, a sullen tragic Scene Would suit the time, with pleasing congruence. May we be happy in our weak devoir, And all part pleased in most wished content: But swear of Hercules can near beget So blessed an issue. Therefore we proclaim, If any spirit breathes within this round, Uncapable of weighty passion (As from his birth, being hugged in the arms, And nuzzled twixt the breasts of happiness) Who winks, and shuts his apprehension up From common sense of what men were, and are, Who would not know what men must be; let such Hurry amain from our black visaged shows: We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast, Nailed to the earth with grief: if any heart Pierced through with anguish, pant within this ring: If there be any blood, whose heat is choked And stifled with true sense of misery: If aught of these strains fill this consort up, th'arrivearrive most welcome. O that our power Could lackey, or keep wing with our desires; That with unused poise of style and sense, We might weigh massy in judicious scale. Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes; When our Scenes falter, or invention halts, Your favour will give crutches to our faults. HO, Gasper Strotzo, bind Feliche's trunk Unto the panting side of Mellida. 'tis yet dead night, yet all the earth is clutched In the dull leaden hand of snoring sleep: No breath disturbs the quiet of the air. No spirit moves upon the breast of earth, Save howling dogs, nightcrows, & screeching owls, Save meager ghosts, Piero, and black thoughts. One, two. Lord, in two hours what a topless mount Of unpeered mischief, have these hands cast up! I can scarce coop triumphing vengeance up, From bursting forth in braggart passion. My Lord, 'tis firmly said that Andrugio sleeps in peace: this brain hath choked The organ of his breast. Feliche hangs, But as a bait upon the line of death, To 'tice on mischief. I am great in blood, unequalled in revenge. You horrid scouts, That sentinel swart night, give loud applause From your large palms. First know, my heart was raised Unto Andrugio's life, upon this ground: Duke, 'tis reported We both were rivals in our May of blood, Unto Maria, great Ferrara's heir. He won the Lady, to my honour's death: And from her sweets, cropped this Antonio: For which, I burned in inward sweltering hate, And festered rankling malice in my breast, Till I might belike revenge upon his eyes: And now (o blessed now) 'tis done. Hell, night, Give loud applause to my hypocrisy. When his bright valour even dazzled sense, In offering his own head, public reproach Had blurred my name. Speak Strotzo, had it not? If then I had It had, so please
seed 43: T17 · seed 44: T19 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
THE rawish danke of clumzie winter ramps The fluent summers vaine: and drizling sleete Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numd earth, Whilst snarling gusts nibble the iuyceles leaues, From the nak't shuddring branch; and pils the skinne From off the soft and delicate aspectes. O, now, me thinks, a sullen tragick Sceane Would suite the time, with pleasing congruence. May we be happie in our weake deuoyer, And all parte pleas'd in most wisht content: But sweare of Hercules can nere beget So blest an issue. Therefore we proclaime, If any spirit breathes within this round, Vncapable of waightie passion (As from his birth, being hugged in the armes, And nuzzled twixt the breastes of happinesse) Who winkes, and shuts his apprehension vp From common sense of what men were, and are, Who would not knowe what men must be; let such Hurrie amaine from our black visag'd showes: We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast, Nail'd to the earth with griefe: if any heart Pierc't through with anguish, pant within this ring: If there be any blood, whose heate is choakt And stifled with true sense of misery: If ought of these straines fill this consort vp, Th'arriue most welcome. O that our power Could lackie, or keepe wing with our desires; That with vnused paize of stile and sense, We might waigh massy in iudicious scale. Yet heere's the prop that doth support our hopes; When our Sceanes falter, or inuention halts▪ Your fauour will giue crutches to our faults. HO, Gasper Strotzo, binde Feliches trunke Vnto the panting side of Mellida. Tis yet dead night, yet al the earth is cloucht In the dull leaden hand of snoring sleepe: No breath disturbs the quiet of the ayre. No spirit moues vpon the breast of earth, Saue howling dogs, nightcrowes, & screeching owls, Saue meager ghosts, Piero, and black thoughts. One, two▪ Lord, in two houres what a toplesse mount Of vnpeer'd mischiefe, haue these hands cast vp! I can scarce coope triumphing vengeance vp, From bursting forth in bragart passion. My Lord, tis firmely saide that Andrugio sleepes in peace: this braine hath choakt The organ of his breast. Feliche hangs, But as a baite vpon the line of death, To tice on mischiefe. I am great in blood, Vnequald in reuenge. You horrid scouts, That centinell swart night, giue lowde applause From your large palms. First know, my hart was rais'd Vnto Andrugios life, vpon this ground: Duke, tis reported We both were riuals in our May of blood, Vnto Maria, Ferraras heire. He wan the Ladie, to my honours death: And from her sweetes, cropt this Antonio: For which, I burnt in inward sweltring hate, And festred rankling malice in my breast, Till I might belke reuenge vpon his eyes: And now (ô blessed now) tis done. Hell, night, Giue lowde applause to my hypocrisie. When his bright valour euen dazled sense, In offring his owne heade, publick reproach Had blurd my name. Speake Strotzo, had it not? If then I had It had, so please