Antonio's Revenge (2 Antonio and Mellida) · chunk 17 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 · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
howl not thou pury mould, groan not ye graves. Be dumb all breath. Here stands Andrugio's son, Worthy his father. So: I feel no breath. His jaws are fallen, his dislodged soul is fled: And now there's nothing, but Piero, left. He is all Piero, father all. This blood, This breast, this heart, Piero all: Whom thus I mangle. sprite of Iulyo, Forget this was thy trunk. I live thy friend. mayst thou be twined with the softest embrace Of clear eternity: but thy father's blood, I thus make incense of, to vengeance. Ghost of my poisoned Sire, suck this fume: To sweet revenge perfume thy circling air, With smoke of blood. I sprinkle round his gore, And dew thy hearse, with these fresh reeking drops. Lo thus I heave my blood-dyed hands to heaven: Even like insatiate hell, still crying; More. My heart hath thirsting Dropsies after gore. Sound peace, and rest, to Church, night ghosts, and graves. Blood cries for blood; and murder murder craves. FIE, fie; to morrow your wedding day, and weep! God's my comfort. Andrugio could do well: Piero may do better. I have had four husbands myself. The first I called, Sweet Duck; the second, Dear Heart; the third, Pretty Pug: But the fourth most sweet, dear, pretty, all in all: he was the very cockeall of a husband. What, Lady? your skin is smooth, your blood warm, your cheek fresh, your eye quick: change of pasture makes fat calves: choice of linen, clean bodies; and (no question) variety of husbands perfect wives. I would you should know it, as few teeth as I have in my head, I have read Aristotle's Problems, which saith; that woman receiveth perfection by the man. What then be the men? Go to, to bed, lie on your back, dream not on Piero. I say no more: to morrow is your wedding: do, dream not of Piero. What an idle prate thou keep'st? good nurse go sleep. I have a mighty task of tears to weep. Lady, with a most retort and obtuse leg I kiss the curled locks of your loose hair. The Duke hath sent you the most musical sir Geoffrey, with his not base, but most ennobled viol, to rock your baby thoughts in the Cradle of sleep. I give the noble Duke respective thanks. Respective; truly a very pretty word. Indeed Madam, I have the most respective fiddle▪ Did you ever smell a more sweet sound. My ditty must go thus; very witty, I assure you: I myself in an humorous passion made it, to the tune of my mistress Nutriches beauty. Indeed, very pretty, very retort, and obtuse; I'll assure you 'tis thus. My mistress eye doth oil my joints, And makes my fingers nimble: O love, come on, untruss your points, My fiddlestick wants resin. My lady's dugs are all so smooth, That no flesh must them handle: Her eyes do shine, for to say sooth, Like a new snuffed candle.
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)
Howle not thou pury mould, groan not ye graues. Be dumbe all breath. Here stands Andrugio's sonne, Worthie his father. So: I feele no breath. His iawes are falne, his dislodg'd soule is fled: And now there's nothing, but Piero, left. He is all Piero, father all. This blood, This breast, this heart, Piero all: Whome thus I mangle. Spright of Iulyo, Forget this was thy trunke. I liue thy friend. Maist thou be twined with the sofest imbrace Of cleare eternitie: but thy fathers blood, I thus make incense of, to vengeance. Ghost of my poysoned Syre, sucke this fume: To sweete reuenge perfume thy circling ayre, With smoake of bloode. I sprinkle round his goare, And dewe thy hearse, with these fresh reeking drops. Loe thus I heaue my blood-died handes to heauen: Euen like insatiate hell, still crying; More. My heart hath thirsting Dropsies after goare. Sound peace, and rest, to Church, night ghosts, and graues. Blood cries for bloode; and murder murder craues. FY, fie; to morrowe your wedding day, and weepe! Gods my comfort. Andrugio could do well: Piero may doe better. I haue had foure husbands my selfe. The first I called, Sweete Duck; the second, Deare Heart; the third, Prettie Pugge: But the fourth most sweete, deare, prettie, all in all: he was the verie cockeall of a husband. What, Ladie? your skinne is smooth, your bloode warme, your cheeke fresh, your eye quick: change of pasture makes fat calues: choice of linnen, cleane bodies; and (no question) variety of husbands perfect wiues▪ I would you should knowe it, as fewe teeth as I haue in my heade, I haue red Aristotles Problemes, which saith; that woman receiueth perfection by the man. What then be the men? Goe to, to bed, lye on your backe, dream not on Piero. I say no more: to morrowe is your wedding: doe, dreame not of Piero. What an idle prate thou keep'st? good nurse goe sleepe. I haue a mightie taske of teares to weepe. Ladie, with a most retort and obtuse legge I kisse the curled locks of your loose haire. The Duke hath sent you the most musicall sir Gefferey, with his not base, but most innobled Viole, to rock your baby thoughts in the Cradle of sleepe. I giue the noble Duke respectiue thanks. Respectiue; truely a verie prettie word. Indeed Madam, I haue the most respectiue fiddle▪ Did you euer smell a more sweete sounde. My dittie must goe thus; verie wittie, I assure you: I my selfe in an humorous passion made it, to the tune of my mistresse Nutriches beautie. Indeede, verie prettie, verie retort, and obtuse; Ile assure you tis thus. My mistresse eye doth oyle my ioynts, And makes my fingers nimble: O loue, come on, vntrusse your points, My fiddlestick wants Rozzen. My Ladies dugges are all so smooth, That no flesh must them handle▪ Her eyes doe shine, for to say sooth, Like a newe snuffed candle.