Alexander, William · published 1637 · first performed or written 1604 (Annals) tragedy T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm typicality 0.83 · 553 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
CAN Heaven behold one stand to stain these times, Yet to the Stygian streams not headlong hurled? And can th'arth bear one burdened with such crimes, As may provoke the wrath of all the world? Why sends not Iove, to have my course confined, A death-denouncing flash of rumbling Thunder? Else (roaring terror) clouds of circling wind, By violence to tear me all a sunder? What corner yet unknown from men removed, Both burned with rage, and freezing in despair, Shall I go now possess, to be approved, Where none but monsters like myself repair? I'll go indeed whom all the world detests, Who have no interest in the fields of bliss, And barbarise amongst the brutish beasts, Where Tigers rage, Toads spew, and Serpents hisse: But though in some vast Zone, I find a field, Where melancholy might a monarch be, Whilst silent deserts not one person yield To shrink for horror, when beholding me; Yet of my deeds which all the world do tell, This cannot raze the still proclaimed Scroll, Since in my breast I bear about my hell, And cannot scape the terrors of my soul. Those fearful Monsters of confused aspects, Chimaera, Gorgon, Hydra, Pluto's Apes, Which in the world wrought wonderful effects, And borrowed from th'infernal shades their shapes, Their devilish forms which did the world amaze, Not half so monstrous as myself I find, When on mine own deformities I gaze, Amidst black depths of a polluted mind; No, but my mind untainted still remains, My thoughts in this delict have had no part, Which but by accident this foul fact stains, My hands had no commission from my heart; Yet, whether it was fortune, or my fate, Or some Hel-hag, that did direct my arm, The Lydians plague, I have undone this State, And am the instrument of all their harm: Then mountains fall, and bruise me by your rounds, Your heights may hide me from the wrath of Heaven; But this not needs, since me my fault confounds: With my offence no torment can be even. Ah! of what desert shall I now make choice, To fly the countenance of an angry King? I know the venging sword of Croesus' voice, To wound my soul, hosts of rebukes doth bring; The pattern of distress, I'll stand alone, A memorable monster of mishap; For, though Pandora's plagues were all in one, All were too few, so vile a wretch to trap. O how the king is moved at Atis death! His face the portrait of a passion bears, With bended eyes, crossed arms, and quivering breath, His Princely robe he desperately tears; Lo, with a silent pity-pleading look, Which shows with sorrow mixed a high disdain, He (whilst his soul seems to dissolve in smoke) Strays 'twixt the corpses, and him who hath it slain. Thou ruthless tyrant ruin of my bliss, And didst thou so disguise thy devilish nature, To recompense my courtesies with this▪ Ah cruel wretch, abominable creature! Thy Tigrish mind what wit could well detect, immortal breasts so great barbarity? What froward Spirit could but such spite suspect, In hospitality hostility? Did I revive thee when thy hopes were dead, When as thy life thy parents had not spared? And having heaped such favours on thy head, Is this? Is this?
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1375–1446 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 22 of 46 in this edition
Length
553 words · 747 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T36 — Hell, Furies and the language of punishmentcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.830 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T32 · seed 44: T26 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
CAN Heaven behold one ſtand to ſtaine theſe times, Yet to the Stygian ſtreames not headlong hurld? And can th'arth beare one burden'd with ſuch crimes, As may provoke the wrath of all the world? Why ſends not Iove, to have my courſe confin'd, A death-denouncing flaſh of rumbling Thunder? Elſe (roaring terrour) clouds of circling winde, By violence to teare me all a ſunder? What corner yet unknowne from men remoov'd, Both burn'd with rage, and freezing in deſpayre, Shall I goe now poſſeſſe, to be approv'd, Where none but monſters like my ſelfe repaire? I'le goe indeede whom all the world deteſts, Who have no intreſt in the fields of bliſſe, And barbarize amongſt the brutiſh beaſts, Where Tigers rage, Toades ſpue, and Serpents hiſſe: But though in ſome vaſt Zone, I finde a field, Where melancholy might a monarch be, Whilſt ſilent deſerts not one perſon yeeld To ſhrinke for horrour, when beholding me; Yet of my deeds which all the world doe tell, This cannot raze the ſtill proclaimed Scroule, Since in my breſt I beare about my hell, And cannot ſcape the terrours of my ſoule. Thoſe fearfull Monſters of confus'd aſpects, Chimaera, Grgon, Hydra, Pluto's Apes, Which in the world wrought wonderfull effects, And borrow'd from th'infernall ſhades their ſhapes, Their devilliſh formes which did the world amaze, Not halfe ſo monſtrous as my ſelfe I finde, When on mine owne deformities I gaze, Amid'ſt blacke depths of a polluted minde; No, but my minde untainted ſtill remaines, My thoughts in this delict have had no part, Which but by accident this foule fact ſtaines, My hands had no commiſſion from my heart; Yet, whether it was fortune, or my fate, Or ſome Hel-hag, that did direct my arme, The Lydians plague, I have undone this State, And am the inſtrument of all their harme: Then mountaines fall, and bruiſe me by your rounds, Your heights may hide me from the wrath of Heaven; But this not needes, ſince mee my fault confounds: With my offence no torment can be eaven. Ah! of what deſert ſhall I now make choice, To flie the count'nance of an angry King? I know the venging ſword of Croeſus voice, To wound my ſoule, hoſtes of rebukes doth bring; The patterne of diſtreſſe, I'le ſtand alone, A memorable monſter of miſhap; For, though Pandora's plagues were all in one, All were too few, ſo vile a wretch to trap. O how the king is mov'd at Atis death! His face the portrait of a paſſion beares, With bended eyes, croſt armes, and quivering breath, His Princely robe he deſperately teares; Loe, with a ſilent pittie-pleading looke, Which ſhewes with ſorrow mixt a high diſdaine, He (whilſt his ſoule ſeemes to diſſolve in ſmoke) Straies twixt the corpes, and him who hath it ſlaine. Thou ruthleſſe tyrant ruine of my bliſſe, And didſt thou ſo diſguiſe thy devilliſh nature, To recompence my curteſies with this▪ Ah cruell wretch, abominable creature! Thy Tigriſh mind what wit could well detect, Inmortall breſts ſo great barbarity? What froward Sprite could but ſuch ſpight ſuſpect, In hoſpitality hoſtility? Did I revive thee when thy hopes were dead, When as thy life thy parents had not ſpar'd? And having heap'd ſuch favours on thy head, Is this? Is this?