Dekker, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 [c.1606-1607] (Annals) history; allegory · Prince Henry's Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 498 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O unhappy man; That thou shouldst breath thus long: mirror of women, I open now my breast even to the heart, My very soul pants on my lips: none, none, I know of none. Well; none: rise and take heed, They are no common drops when Princes bleed. What hour is this? does not my 'larum strike? This watch goes false. This watch goes true. All's nought.— what hour is this? Thy last hour, O heavens, further The work you have begun: where art thou heart? Oh we see't: Doctor wind up the wheel, 'tis down, 'tis down. How now? what struck thee down? thy looks are wildes Why was thine armed hand reared to his height? What black work art thou doing? Of damnation upon myself; How? Your words have split my heart in thousand shivers, here, here that sticks which I fear will not out Better to die than live suspected. Had not your bright eyes Turned back upon me, I had long ere this Lain at your feet a bloody sacrifice. Stained Altars please not us: why dost thou weep? Thou mak'st my good thoughts of thee now decline, Who loves not his own blood, will ne'er spare mine, Why dost thou weep? When on your face I look, Me thinks I see those Virtues drawn alive Which did in Elfilyne the seventh survive, (Your father's father, and your grandfather,) And then that you should take me for a serpent Gnawing the branches of that glorious tree, The grief melts even my soul, O pardon me. Contract thy spirits together, be composed; Take a full man into thee, for behold All these black clouds we clear: look up, 'tis day, The sun shines on thee still: we'll read: away— O matchless; i'm all poison, and yet she. Tutnes all to goodness by wise tempering me. If thou provest copper— well; this makes us strong As towers of flint, All traitors are but waves, That beat at rocks, their own blows dig their graves. For not doing am I damned: how are my spirits Halde, tortured, and grown wild? on leaves eternal Vows have I writ so deep, so bound them up, So texted them in characters capital, I cannot raze them but I blot my name Out of the book of sense: mine oath stands filled On your court-roles, Then keep it, up to heaven Thy ladder's but thus high: courage, to kill Ten men I should not freeze thus: yet her murder Cannot be named bloodshed, for her Fairies Are all of faith, and fealty assoiled The balm that her anointed is washed off, Her crown is now not hers; upon the pain Of a black curse, no more must I obey her, I climb to heaven by this, climb then and slay her. Atyrants' strange, but just end! Run for sloepe, and died Princes that plunge Their souls in rank and godless appetites Must seek no rest but in the arms of Sprites.
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)
O vnhappie man; That thou shouldst breathe thus long: mirrour of women, I open now my brest euen to the heart, My very soule pants on my lips: none, none, I know of none. Well; none: rise and take heede, They are no common droppes when Princes bleede. What houre is this? does not my larum strike? This watch goes false. This watch goes true. All's naught.—what houre is this? Thy last houre, O heauens, furder The worke you haue begun: where art thou heart? Oh we see't: Doctor wind vp the wheele, tis downe, Tis downe. How no what strucke hee downe? thy lookes are wildes Why was thine armed hand reard to his height? What blacke worke art thou doing? Of damnation vpon my selfe; How? Your wordes haue split my heart in thowsand shiners, Heere, heere that stickes which I feare will not out Better to die than liue suspected. Had not your bright eyes Turnd backe vpon me, I had long ere this Layen at your feete a bloudie sacrifice. Staind Altars please not vs: why doest thou weepe? Thou mak'st my good thoughts of thee now declyne, Who loues not his owne bloud, will ne're spare mine, Why doest thou weepe? When on your face I looke, Me thinkes I see those Vertues drawne aliue Which did in Elfilyne the seauenth suruiue, (Your fathers father, and your grandfather,) And then that you should take me for a serpent Gnawing the branches of that glorious tree, The griefe melts euen my soule, O pardon me. Contract thy spirits togither, be compos'd; Take a full man into thee, for beholde All these blacke clowdes we cleere: looke vp, tis day, The sunne shines on thee still: weel'e reade: away— O machlesse; im'e all poyson, and yet she. Tutnes all to goodnes by wise tempering me. If thou prou'st copper—well; this makes vs strong As towers of slint, All traytors are but waues, That beate at rockes, their owne blowes digge their graues. For not dooing am I damde: how are my spirits Halde, tortured, and growne wilde? on leaues eternall Vowes haue I writ so deepe, so bound them vp, So texted them in characters capitall, I cannot race them but I blot my name Out of the booke of sence: mine oath stands filde On your court-roles, Then keepe it, vp to heaue Thy ladder's but thus hie: courage, to kill Ten men I should not freeze thus: yet her murder Cannot be named bloud-shed, for her Faieries Are all of faith, and fealty assoyled The balme that her annoynted is washt off, Her crowne is now not hers; vpon the paine Of a blacke cse, no more must I obey her, I climbe to heauen by this, climbe then and slay her. Atyrants strange, but iust end! Ran mad for sloepe, and died Princes that plunge Their soules in ranke and godlesse appetites Must seeke no rest but in the armes of Sprites.