Antonio's Revenge (2 Antonio and Mellida) · chunk 29 of 29
Marston, John · published 1602 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) tragedy · Children of Paul's (second) T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.83 · 502 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
'tis done, and now my soul shall sleep in rest. Sons that revenge their father's blood, are blessed. WHOSE hand presents this gory spectacle? Mine. No: mine. No: mine. I will not lose the glory of the deed, Were all the tortures of the deepest hell Fixed to my limbs. I pierced the monster's heart, With an undaunted hand. By yond bright spangled front of heaven 'twas I: 'twas I sluiced out his life blood. Tush, to say truth, 'twas all. Blessed be you all, and may your honours live Religiously held sacred, even for ever and ever. To Antonio. Thou art another Hercules to us, In ridding huge pollution from our State. Antonio, belief is fortified, With most invincible approvements of much wrong, By this Piero to thee. We have found Beadroles of mischief, plots of villainy, Laid twixt the Duke and Strotzo: which we found Too firmly acted. Alas poor orphan. Poor? standing triumphant over Belzebub? Having large interest for blood; & yet deemed poor? What satisfaction outward pomp can yield, Or chiefest fortunes of the Venice state, Claim freely. You are well seasoned props, And will not warp, or lean to either part, Calamity gives man a steady heart. We are amazed at your benignity: But other vows constrain another course. We know the world, and did we know no more, we would not live to know: but since constraint Of holy bands forceth us keep this lodge Of dirt's corruption, till dread power calls Our soul's appearance, we will live enclosed In holy verge of some religious order, Most constant votaries. First let's cleanse our hands, Purge hearts of hatred, and entomb my love: Over whose hearse, I'll weep away my brain In true affections tears, For her sake, here I vow a virgin bed. She lives in me, with her my love is dead. We will attend her mournful exequies, Conduct you to your calm sequestered life, And then Leave us, to meditate on misery; To sad our thought with contemplation Of past calamities. If any ask Where lives the widow of the poisoned Lord? Where lies the orphan of a murdered father? Where lies the father of a butchered son? Where lives all woe? conduct him to us three; The downcast ruins of calamity. Sound doleful tunes, a solemn hymn advance, To close the last act of my vengeance: And when the subject of your passion's spent, Sing Mellida is dead, all hearts will relent, In sad condolement, at that heavy sound, Never more woe in lesser plot was found. And, o, if ever time create a Muse, That to th'immortal fame of virgin faith, Dares once engage his pen to write her death, Presenting it in some black Tragedy. May it prove gracious, may his style be decked With freshest blooms of purest elegance; May it have gentle presence, and the scenes sucked up By calm attention of choice audience: And when the closing Epilogue appears, In stead of claps, may it obtain but tears.
nodes 1761–1833 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 29 of 29 in this edition
Length
502 words · 683 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.828 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Tis done, and now my sowle shal sleep in rest. Sons that reuenge their fathers blood, are blest. WHOSE hand presents this gory spectacle? Mine. No: mine. No: mine. I will not loose the glorie of the deede, Were all the tortures of the deepest hell Fixt to my limbs. I pearc't the monsters heart, With an vndaunted hand. By yon bright spangled front of heauen twas I: Twas I sluc't out his life bloode. Tush, to say truth, twas all. Blest be you all, and may your honours liue Religiously helde sacred, euen for euer and euer. To Antonio. Thou art another Hercules to vs, In ridding huge pollution from our State. Antonio, beliefe is fortified, With most inuincible approuemēts of much wrong, By this Piero to thee. We haue found Beadroles of mischiefe, plots of villany, Laide twixt the Duke and Strotzo: which we found Too firmely acted. Alas poore Orphant. Poore? standing tryumphant ouer Belzebub? Hauing large interest for blood; & yet deem'd poor? What satisfaction outward pomp can yield, Or cheefest fortunes of the Venice state, Claime freely. You are well seasond props, And will not warpe, or leane to either part▪ Calamity giues man a steddy heart. We are amaz'd at your benignitie: But other vowes constraine another course. We know the world, and did we know no more, Wee would not liue to know: but since constraint Of holy bands forceth vs keepe this lodge Of durts corruption, till dread power cals Our soules appearance, we will liue inclos'd In holy verge of some religious order, Most constant votaries. First let's cleanse our hands, Purge hearts of hatred, and intoumbe my loue: Ouer whose hearse, Ile weepe away my braine In true affections teares, For her sake, here I vowe a virgine bed. She liues in me, with her my loue is deade. We will attend her mournfull exequies, Conduct you to your calme sequestred life, And then Leaue vs, to meditate on misery; To sad our thought with contemplation Of past calamities. If any aske Where liues the widdowe of the poisoned Lord? Where lies the Orphant of a murdred father? Where lies the father of a butchered son? Where liues all woe? conduct him to vs three; The downe-cast ruines of calamitie. Sound dolefull tunes, a solemne hymn aduance, To close the last act of my vengeance: And when the subiect of your passion's spent, Sing Mellida is deade, all hearts will relent, In sad condolement, at that heauie sound, Neuer more woe in lesser plot was found. And, ô, if euer time create a Muse, That to th'immortall fame of virgine faith, Dares once engage his pen to write her death, Presenting it in some black Tragedie. May it proue gratious, may his stile be deckt With freshest bloomes of purest elegance; May it haue gentle presence, and the Sceans suckt vp By calme attention of choyce audience: And when the closing Epilogue appeares, In stead of claps, may it obtaine but teares.