Antonio's Revenge (2 Antonio and Mellida) · chunk 15 of 29
Marston, John · published 1602 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) tragedy · Children of Paul's (second) T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.80 · 525 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Nurse, 'tis not yet proud day: The neat gay mists of the light's not up, Her cheeks not yet flurd over with the paint Of borrowed crimson; the unpranked world Wears yet the night-clothes: let flare my loosed hair. I scorn the presence of the night. Where's my boy? Run: I'll range about the Church, Like frantic Bacchanal, or Iasons wife, Invoking all the spirits of the graves, To tell me where. Hah? O my poor wretched blood, What dost thou up at midnight, my kind boy? Dear soul, to bed: o thou hast struck a fright Unto thy mother's panting O quisquis nova Supplicia functis dirus umbrarum arbiter Disponis, quisquis exeso iaces Pavidus sub antri, quisquis venturi times Montis rvinam, quisquis avidorum feres, Rictus leonum, & dira furiarum agmina Implicitus horres, Antonii vocem excipe Properantis ad vos ulciscar. Alas my son's distraught. Sweet boy appease Thy mutining affections. By the astoning terror of swart night, By the infectious damps of clammy graves, And by the mould that presseth down My dead father's skull: I'll be revenged. Wherefore? on whom? for what? go, go to bed Good duteous son. Ho, but thy idle So I may sleep tombed in an honoured hearse, So may my bones rest in that Sepulchre, Forget not duty son: to bed, to bed. May I be cursed by my father's ghost, And blasted with incensed breath of heaven, If my heart beat on aught but vengeance, May I be numbed with horror, and my veins Pucker with sing'ing torture, if my brain Digest a thought, but of dire vengeance: May I be fettered slave to coward Chance, If blood, heart, brain, plot ought save vengeance. Wilt thou to bed? I wonder when thou sleepest! i'faith thou look'st sunk-eyed; go couch thy head: Now faith 'tis idle: sweet, sweet son to bed. I have a prayer or two, to offer up, For the good, good Prince, my most dear, dear Lord, The Duke Piero, and your virtuous self: And then when those prayers have obtained success, In sooth I'll come (believe it now) and couch My head in downy mould: but first I'll see You safely laid. I'll bring ye all to bed. Piero, Maria, Strotzo, Lucio, I'll see you all laid: I'll bring you all to bed, And then, i'faith, I'll come and couch my head, And sleep in peace. Look then, we go before. ay, so you must, before we touch the shore Of wished revenge. O you departed souls, That lodge in coffined trunks, which my feet press (If Pythagorean Axioms be true, Of spirits transmigration) floote no more To human bodies, rather live in swine, Inhabit wolves flesh, scorpions, dogs, and toads, Rather than man, The curse of heaven rains In plagues unlimited through all his days, His mature age grows only mature vice, And ripens only to corrupt and rot The budding hopes of infant modesty. Still striving to be more than man, he proves More than a devil, devilish suspect, devilish cruelty: All hell-strained juice is powered to his veins, Making him drunk with fuming surquedries, Contempt of heaven, untamed arrogance, Lust, state, pride, murder.
nodes 887–959 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 15 of 29 in this edition
Length
525 words · 796 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.799 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Nurse, tis not yet prowde day: The neat gay mistes of the light's not vp, Her cheekes not yet flurd ouer with the paint Of borrowed crimsone; the vnpranked world Wears yet the night-cloathes: let flare my loosed hair. I scorne the presence of the night. Where's my boy? Run: Ile range about the Church, Like frantick Bachanell, or Iasons wife, Inuoking all the spirits of the graues, To tell me where. Hah? O my poore wretched blood, What dost thou vp at midnight, my kinde boy? Deare soule, to bed: ô thou hast struck a fright Vnto thy mothers panting O quisquis noua Supplicia functis dirus vmbrarum arbiter Disponis, quisquis exeso iaces Pauidus sub antri, quisquis venturi times Montis ruinam, quisquis auidorum feres, Rictus leonum, & dira furiarum agmina Implicitus horres, Antonii vocem excipe Properantis ad vos Vlciscar. Alas my son's distraught. Sweete boy appease▪ Thy mutining affections. By the astonning terror of swart night, By the infectious damps of clammie graues, And by the mould that presseth downe My deade fathers sculle: Ile be reueng'd. Wherefore? on whom? for what? go, go to bed Good dutious sonne. Ho, but thy idle So I may sleepe toumb'd in an honour'd hearse, So may my bones rest in that Sepulcher, Forget not dutie sonne: to bed, to bed. May I be cursed by my fathers ghost, And blasted with incensed breath of heauen, If my heart beat on ought but vengeance, May I be numd with horror, and my vaines Pucker with sing'ing torture, if my braine Disgest a thought, but of dire vengeance: May I be fetter'd slaue to coward Chaunce, If blood, heart, braine, plot ought saue vengeance. Wilt thou to bed▪ I wonder when thou sleepst▪ Ifaith thou look'st sunk-ey'd▪ go couch thy head: Now faith tis idle: sweet, sweet sonne to bed. I haue a prayer or two, to offer vp, For the good, good Prince, my most deare, dear Lord, The Duke Piero, and your vertuous selfe: And then when those prayers haue obtain'd successe, In sooth Ile come (beleeue it now) and couch My heade in downie moulde: but first Ile see You safely laide. Ile bring yee all to bed. Piero, Maria, Strotzo, Lucio, Ile see you all laid: Ile bringe you all to bed, And then, ifaith, Ile come and couch my head, And sleepe in peace. Looke then, wee goe before. I, so you must, before we touch the shore Of wisht reuenge. O you departed soules, That lodge in coffin'd , which my feet presse (If Pythagorian Axiomes be true, Of spirits transmigration) floote no more To humane bodies, rather liue in swine, Inhabit wolues flesh, scorpions, dogs, and toads, Rather then man, The curse of heauen raines In plagues vnlimitted through all his daies, His mature age growes onely mature vice, And ripens onely to corrupt and rot The budding hopes of infant modestie. Still striuing to be more then man, he prooues More then a diuell, diuelish suspect, diuelish crueltie: All hell-straid iuyce is powred to his vaines, Making him drunke with fuming surquedries, Contempt of heauen, vntam'd arrogance, Lust, state, pride, murder.