Antonio's Revenge (2 Antonio and Mellida) · chunk 7 of 29
Marston, John · published 1602 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) tragedy · Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 522 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
'tis reason's glory to command affects. Lies thy cold father dead, his glossed eyes New closed up by thy sad mother's hands? Hast thou a love as spotless as the brow Of clearest heaven, blurred with false defames? Are thy moist entrails crumpled up with grief Of parching mischiefs? Tell me, does thy heart With punching anguish spur thy galled ribs? Then come and let's sit and weep & wreathe our arms: I'll hear thy counsel. Take comfort Confusion to all comfort: I defy it. Comfort's a Parasite, a flattering Iack: And melts resolved despair. O boundless woe, If there be any black yet unknown grief: If there be any horror yet unfelt, Unthought of mischief in thy fiendlike power, Dash it upon my miserable head. Make me more wretch, more cursed if thou canst. O, now my fate is more than I could fear: My woes more weighty than my soul can bear. Ha, ha, ha, Why laugh you uncle? That's my cuz, your son, Whose breast hangs cased in his cluttered gore. True man, true: why, wherefore should I weep? Come sit, kind Nephew: come on: thou and I Will talk as Chorus to this tragedy▪ Entreat the music strain their instruments, With a slight touch whilst we. Say on fair cuz. He was the very hope of Italy, The blooming honour of your drooping age. True cuz, true. They say that men of hope are crushed: Good are suppressed by base desertless clods, That stifle gasping virtue. Look sweet youth, How provident our quick Venetians are, Least hooves of jades should trample on my boy: Look how they lift him up to eminence, Heave him, 'bove reach of flesh. Ha, ha, ha. Uncle, this laughter ill becomes your grief. Wouldst have me cry, run raving up & down, For my son's loss? wouldst have me turn rank mad, Or wring my face with mimic action; Stamp, curse, weep, rage, & then my bosom strike? Away 'tis apish action, player-like. If he is guiltless, why should tears be spent? Thrice blessed soul that dieth innocent. If he is lepered with so foul a guilt, Why should a sigh be lent, a tear be spilled? The gripe of chance is weak, to wring a tear, From him that knows what fortitude should bear. Listen young blood. 'tis not true valours pride, To swagger, quarrel, swear, stamp, rave, and chide, To stab in fume of blood, to keep loud coil, To bandy factions in domestic broils, To dare the act of Sins, whose filth excels. The blackest customs of blind Infidels. No, my loved youth: he may of valour vaunt; Whom fortune's loudest thunder can not daunt, Whom fretful galls of chance, stern fortune's siege; Makes not his reason slink, the soul's fair liege, Whose well poised action ever rests upon Not giddy humours, but discretion. This heart in valour even Ioue outgoes: Ioue is without, but this 'bove sense of woes: And such a one eternity: Behold, Good morrow son: thou bidst a fig for cold. Sound louder music: let my breath exact, You strike sad Tones unto this dismal act.
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)
Tis reasons glorie to commaund affects. Lies thy cold father dead, his glossed eyes New closed vp by thy sad mothers hands? Hast thou a loue as spotlesse as the browe Of clearest heauen, blurd with false defames? Are thy moyst entrals crumpled vp with griefe Of parching mischiefs? Tel me, does thy hart With punching anguish spur thy galled ribs? Then come and let's sit and weep & wreath our arms: Ile heare thy counsell. Take comfort Confusion to all comfort: I defie it. Comfort's a Parasite, a flattring Iack: And melts resolu'd despaire. O boundlesse woe, If there be any black yet vnknowen griefe: If there be any horror yet vnfelt, Vnthought of mischiefe in thy fiendlike power, Dash it vpon my miserable heade. Make me more wretch, more cursed if thou canst. O, now my fate is more than I could feare: My woes more waightie than my soule can beare. Ha, ha, ha, Why laugh you vncle? Thats my cuz, your son, Whose brest hangs cased in his cluttered gore. True man, true: why, wherfore should I weepe? Come sit, kinde Nephew: come on: thou and I Will talke as Chorus to this tragedie▪ Intreat the musick straine their instruments, With a slight touch whilst we. Say on fair cuz. He was the very hope of Italy, The blooming honour of your drooping age. True cuz, true. They say that men of hope are crusht: Good are supprest by base desertlesse clods, That stifle gasping vertue. Look sweet youth, How prouident our quick Venetians are, Least houes of iades should trample on my boy: Looke how they lift him vp to eminence, Heaue him, boue reach of flesh. Ha, ha, ha. Vncle, this laughter ill becomes your griefe. Would'st haue me cry, run rauing vp & down, For my sons losse? would'st haue me turn rank mad, Or wring my face with mimick action; Stampe, curse, weepe, rage, & then my bosome strike? Away tis apish action, player-like. If hee is guiltlesse, why should teares be spent? Thrice blessed soule that dyeth innocent. If he is leapred with so foule a guilt, Why should a sigh be lent, a teare be spilt? The gripe of chaunce is weake, to wring a teare, From him that knowes what fortitude should beare. Listen young blood. Tis not true valors pride, To swagger, quarrell, sweare, stampe, raue, and chide, To stab in fume of blood, to keepe lowde coyle, To bandie factions in domestick broyles, To dare the act of Sins, whose filth excels. The blackest customes of blinde Infidels. No, my lou'd youth: he may of valour vaunt; Whom fortunes lowdest thunder can not daunt, Whom fretful gaules of chance, sterne fortunes siege; Makes not his reason slinke, the soules faire liege, Whose well pais'd action euer rests vpon Not giddie humours, but discretion. This heart in valour euen Ioue out-goes: Ioue is without, but this 'boue sense of woes: And such a one eternitie: Behold, Good morrow sonne: thou bidst a fig for colde. Sound lowder musick: let my breath exact, You strike sad Tones vnto this dismall act.