Antonio's Revenge (2 Antonio and Mellida) · chunk 28 of 29
Marston, John · published 1602 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) tragedy · Children of Paul's (second) T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.84 · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Then will I dance and whirl about the air. methinks I am all soul, all heart, all spirit. Now murder shall receive his ample merit. Bring hither suckets, candied delicates. we'll taste some sweet meats, gallants, ere we sleep. wele cooke your sweet meats, gallants, with tart sour sauce. Here will I sit, spectator of revenge, And glad my ghost in anguish of my foe. Marry and shall; i'faith I were too rude, If I gainsaid so civil fashion. The maskers pray you to forbear the room, Till they have banqueted. Let it be so: No man presume to visit them, on death. Only myself? O, why with all my heart▪ I'll fill your consort; here Piero sits: Come on, unmask, let's fall to Murder and torture: no prayers, no entreaties. we'll spoil your oratory. Out with his tongue. I have't Pandulpho: the veins panting bleed, Trickling fresh gore about my fist. Bind fast; so, so. Blessed be thy hand. I taste the joys of heaven, Viewing my son triumph in his black blood. Down to the dungeon with him, I'll dungeon with him; I'll fool you: sir Geoffrey will be sir Geoffrey. I'll tickle you. Behold, black dog. Grinst thou, thou snarling cur? Eat thy black liver. To thine anguish see A fool triumphant in thy misery. Vex him Balurdo. He weeps: now do I glorify my hands, I had no vengeance, if I had no tears. Fall to, good Duke. o these are worthless cares, You have no stomach to them; look, look here: Here lies a dish to feast thy father's gorge. Here's flesh and blood, which I am sure thou lov'st. Was he thy flesh, thy son, thy dearest son? So was Andrugio my dearest father. So was Feliche my dearest son. So was Andrugio my dearest husband. My father found no pity in thy blood. Remorse was banished, when thou slew'st my son. When thou empoisoned'st my loving Lord, Exiled was piety. Now, therefore, pity, piety, remorse, Be aliens to our thoughts: grim fire-eyed rage Possess us wholly. Thy son? true: and which is my most joy, I hope no bastard, but thy very blood Thy true begotten, most legitimate And loved issue: there's the comfort on't. Scum of the mud of hell. Slime of all filth. Thou most detested road. Thou most retort and obtuse rascal. Thus charge we death at thee: remember hell, And let the howling murmurs of black spirits, The horrid torments of the damned Ghosts Affright thy soul, as it descendeth down Into the entrails of the ugly deep. Sa, sa; no, let him die, and die, and still be dying, And yet not die, till he hath died and died Ten thousand deaths in agony of heart. Now pell-mell; thus the hand of heaven chokes The throat of murder. This for my father's blood. This for my son. This for them all. And this, and this; sink to the heart of hell. Murder for murder, blood for blood doth yell.
nodes 1693–1760 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 28 of 29 in this edition
Length
501 words · 721 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.843 (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)
Then wil I daunce and whirle about the ayre. Me thinks I am all sowle, all heart, all spirit. Now murder shall receiue his ample merite. Bring hither suckets, canded delicates. Weele taste some sweet meats, gallants, ere we sleep. Weele cooke your sweete meats, gallants, with tart sower sawce. Here will I sit, spectator of reuenge, And glad my ghost in anguish of my foe. Marry and shall; ifaith I were too rude, If I gainesaide so ciuill fashion. The maskers pray you to forbeare the roome, Till they haue banqueted. Let it be so: No man presume to visite them, on death. Onely my selfe? O, why with all my heart▪ Ile fill your consort; here Piero sits: Come on, vnmaske, lets fall to Murder and torture: no prayers, no entreats. Weele spoyle your oratory. Out with his tong. I haue't Pandulpho: the vaines panting bleede, Trickling fresh goare about my fist. Bind fast; so, so. Blest be thy hand. I taste the ioyes of heauen, Viewing my sonne tryumph in his blacke bloode. Downe to the dungeon with him, Ile dungeon with him; Ile foole you: sir Gefferey will be sir Geffrey. Ile tickle you. Beholde, black dogge. Grinst thou, thou snurling curre? Eate thy black liuer. To thine anguish see A foole tryumphant in thy misery. Vex him Balurdo. He weepes: now doe I glorifie my hands, I had no vengeance, if I had no teares. Fal to, good Duke. ô these are worthlesse cares, You haue no stomack to them; looke, looke here: Here lies a dish to feast thy fathers gorge. Here's flesh and blood, which I am sure thou lou'st. Was he thy flesh, thy son, thy dearest sonne? So was Andrugio my dearest father. So was Feliche my dearest sonne. So was Andrugio my dearest husband. My father found no pittie in thy blood. Remorse was banisht, when thou slew'st my son. When thou impoysoned'st my louing Lord, Exilde was pietie. Now, therefore, pittie, piety, remorse, Be aliens to our thoughts: grim fier-ey'd rage Possesse vs wholly. Thy son? true: and which is my most ioy, I hope no bastard, but thy very blood Thy true begotten, most legitimate And loued issue: there's the comfort ont. Scum of the mud of hell. Slime of all filth. Thou most detested road. Thou most retort and obtuse rascall. Thus charge we death at thee: remember hel, And let the howling murmurs of black spirits, The horrid torments of the damned Ghosts Affright thy sowle, as it descendeth downe Into the intrals of the vgly deepe. Sa, sa; no, let him die, and die, and stil be dying, And yet not die, till he hath di'd and di'd Ten thousand deathes in agonie of heart. Now pel mell; thus the hand of heauen chokes The throate of murder. This for my fathers blood. This for my sonne. This for them all. And this, and this; sinke to the heart of hell. Murder for murder, blood for blood doth yell.