Antonio's Revenge (2 Antonio and Mellida) · chunk 27 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 · 509 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Nay, and you talk of revenge, my stomach's up, For I am most tyrannically hungry. A beaver? I have a headpiece, a skull, a brain of proof, I warrant ye. Slink to my chamber then, and tire thee. Is there a fire? Yes. Is there a fat leg of Ewe mutton? Yes. And a clean shirt? Yes. Then am I for you, most pathetically, & unvulgarly, law. Resolved hearts, time curtals night, opportunity shakes us his foretop. Steel your thoughts, sharp your resolve, embolden your spirit, grasp your swords; alarum mischief, & with an undaunted brow, out scout the grim opposition Of most menacing peril. Hark here, proud pomp shoots mounting triumph up, Borne in loud accents to the front of Ioue. O now, he that wants soul to kill a slave, Let him die slave, and rot in peasants grave. Give me thy hand, and thine, most noble heart, Thus will we live, and, but thus, never part. SIt close unto my breast, heart of my love, Advance thy drooping eyes, Thy son is drowned, Rich happiness that such a son is drowned. Thy husband's dead, life of my joys most blessed, In that the sapless log, that priest thy bed With an unpleasing weight, being lifted hence, Even I Piero, live to warm his place. I tell you, Lady, had you viewed us both, With an unpartial eye, when first we wooed Your maiden beauties, I had borne the prize, 'tis firm I had: for, fair, I ha' done that Murder. Which he would quake to have adventured; Thou know'st I have. Murdered my husband. Born out the shock of war, & done, what not, That valour durst. Dost love me fairest? say. As I do hate my son, I love thy soul. Why then Io to Hymen, mount a lofty note: Fill red cheeked Bacchus, let Lyeus float In burnished goblets. Force the plump lipped god, Skip light lavoltas in your full sapped veins. 'tis well brim full. even I have glut of blood: Let quaff carouse; I drink this Bordeaux wine Unto the health of dead Andrugio, Feliche, Strotzo, and Antonio's ghosts. Would I had some poison to infuse it with; That having done this honour to the dead, I might send one to give them notice on't. I would endear my favour to the full. Boy, sing aloud, make heavens vault to ring With thy breath's strength. I drink. Now loudly sing. CALL Iulio hither; where's the little fowl? I saw him not today. Here's sport alone For him, i'faith; for babes and fools, I know, Relish not substance, but applaud the show. All blessed fortune crown your brave attempt. I have a troup to second your attempt. The Venice States join hearts unto your hands. By the delights in contemplation Of coming joys, 'tis magnificent. You grace my marriage eve with sumptuous pomp. Sound still, loud music. O, your breath gives grace To curious feet, that in proud measure pace. Mother, is Iulios body Speak not, doubt not; all is above all hope.
nodes 1629–1692 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 27 of 29 in this edition
Length
509 words · 730 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.798 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Nay, and you talke of reuenge, my stomack's vp, For I am most tyrannically hungry. A beuer? I haue a headpeece, a skull, a braine of proofe, I warrant yee. Slinke to my chamber then, and tyre thee. Is there a fire? Yes. Is there a fat leg of Ewe mutton? Yes. And a cleane shirt? Yes. Then am I for you, most pathetically, & vnvulgarly, law. Resolued hearts, time curtals night, opportunity shakes vs his foretop. Steel your thoughts, sharp your resolue, imboldē your spirit, grasp your swords; alarum mischief, & with an vndāted brow, out scout the grim opposition Of most menacing perill. Harke here, proud pomp shoots mounting tryumph vp, Borne in lowde accents to the front of Ioue. O now, he that wants sowle to kill a slaue, Let him die slaue, and rot in pesants graue. Giue me thy hand, and thine, most noble heart, Thus will wee liue, and, but thus, neuer part. SIt close vnto my breast, heart of my loue, Aduance thy drooping eyes, Thy sonne is drownde, Rich happinesse that such a sonne is drownde. Thy husband's deade, life of my ioyes most blest, In that the saplesse logge, that prest thy bed With an vnpleasing waight, being lifted hence, Euen I Piero, liue to warme his place. I tell you, Ladie, had you view'd vs both, With an vnprtiall eye, when first we woo'd Your maiden beauties, I had borne the prize, Tis firme I had: for, faire, I ha done that Murder. Which he would quake to haue aduentur'd; Thou know'st I haue. Murdred my husband. Borne out the shock of war, & done, what not, That valour durst. Do'st loue me fairest? say. As I doe hate my son, I loue thy soule. Why then Io to Hymen, mount a loftie note: Fill red cheekt Bacchus, let Lyeus flote In burnisht gobblets. Force the plump lipt god, Skip light lauoltaes in your full sapt vaines. Tis well brim full. Euen I haue glut of blood: Let quaffe carouse; I drinke this Burdeaux wine Vnto the health of deade Andrugio, Feliche, Strotzo ▪ and Antonios ghosts. Would I had some poyson to infuse it with; That hauing done this honour to the dead, I might send one to giue them notice ont. I would indeere my fauour to the full. Boy, sing alowd, make heauens vault to ring With thy breaths strength. I drink. Now lowdly sing. CALL Iulio hither; where's the little fowle? I sawe him not to day. Here's sport alone For him, ifaith; for babes and fooles, I know, Relish not substance, but applaud the showe. All blessed fortune crown your braue attempt. I haue a troope to second your attempt. The Venice States ioyne hearts vnto your hands. By the delights in contemplation Of comming ioyes, 'tis magnificent. You grace my mariage eue with sumptuous pompe. Sound still, lowde musick. O, your breath giues grace To curious feete, that in proud measure pase. Mother, is Iulios bodie Speake not, doubt not; all is aboue all hope.