Chapman, George · published 1607 · first performed or written 1607 (Annals) tragedy · Children of Paul's (second) · Paul's unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 446 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O good my Lord forbear In wreak of great sins, to engender greater, And make my loves corruption generate murder. It follows needfully as child and parent; The chain-shot of thy lust is yet aloft, And it must murder; 'tis thine own dear twin: No man can add height to a woman's sin. Vice never doth her just hate so provoke, As when she rageth under virtues cloak. Write: For it must be; by this ruthless steel, By this impartial torture, and the death Thy tyrannies have invented in my entrails, To quicken life in dying, and hold up The spirits in fainting, teaching to preserve Torments in ashes, that will ever last. Speak: Will you write? Sweet Lord enjoin my sin Some other penance than what makes it worse: Hide in some gloomy dungeon my loathed face, And let condemned murderers let me down (Stopping their noses) my abhorred food. Hang me in chains, and let me eat these arms That have offended: Bind me face to face To some dead woman, taken from the Cart Of Execution, till death and time In grains of dust dissolve me; I'll endure: Or any torture that your wrath's invention Can fright all pity from the world withal: But to betray a friend with show of friendship, That is too common, for the rare revenge Your rage affecteth; here then are my breasts, Last night your pillows; here my wretched arms, As late the wished confines of your life: Now break them as you please, and all the bounds Of manhood, noblesse, and religion. Where all these have been broken, they are kept, In doing their justice there: Thine arms have lost Their privilege in lust, and in their torture Thus they must pay it. O Lord. Till thou writ'st I'll write in wounds (my wrongs fit characters) Thy right of sufferance. Write. O kill me, kill me: Dear husband be not crueler than death; You have beheld some Gorgon: Feel, o feel How you are turned to stone; with my heart blood Dissolve yourself again, or you will grow Into the image of all Tyranny. As thou art of adultery, I will still Prove thee my like in ill, being most a monster: Thus I express thee yet. And yet I live. ay, for thy monstrous idol is not done yet: This tool hath wrought enough: now Torture use This other engine on th'habituate powers Of her thrice damned and whorish fortitude. Use the most madding pains in her that ever Thy venoms soaked through, making most of death; That she may weigh her wrongs with them, and then Stand vengeance on thy steepest rock, a victor.
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 good my Lord forbeare In wreake of great sins, to engender greater, And make my loues corruption generate murther. It followes needefully as childe and parent; The chaine-shot of thy lust is yet aloft, And it must murther; tis thine owne deare twinne: No man can adde height to a womans sinne. Vice neuer doth her iust hate so prouoke, As when she rageth vnder vertues cloake. Write: For it must be; by this ruthlesse steele, By this impartiall torture, and the death Thy tyrannies haue inuented in my entrailes, To quicken life in dying, and hold vp The spirits in fainting, teaching to preserue Torments in ashes, that will euer last. Speake: Will you write? Sweete Lord enioine my sinne Some other penance than what makes it worse: Hide in some gloomie dungeon my loth'd face, And let condemned murtherers let me downe (Stopping their noses) my abhorred foode. Hang me in chaines, and let me eat these armes That haue offended: Binde me face to face To some dead woman, taken from the Cart Of Execution, till death and time In graines of dust dissolue me; Ile endure: Or any torture that your wraths inuention Can fright all pittie from the world withall: But to betray a friend with shew of friendship, That is too common, for the rare reuenge Your rage affecteth; heere then are my breasts, Last night your pillowes; heere my wretched armes, As late the wished confines of your life: Now breake them as you please, and all the boundes Of manhoode, noblesse, and religion. Where all these haue beene broken, they are kept, In doing their iustice there: Thine armes haue lost Their priuiledge in lust, and in their torture Thus they must pay it. O Lord. Till thou writ'st Ile write in wounds (my wrongs fit characters) Thy right of sufferance. Write. O kill me, kill me: Deare husband be not crueller than death; You haue beheld some Gorgon: Feele, ô feele How you are turn'd to stone; with my heart blood Dissolue your selfe againe, or you will grow Into the image of all Tyrannie. As thou art of adulterie, I will still Prooue thee my like in ill, being most a monster: Thus I expresse thee yet. And yet I liue. I, for thy monstrous idoll is not done yet: This toole hath wrought enough: now Torture vse This other engine on th'habituate powers Of her thrice damn'd and whorish fortitude. Vse the most madding paines in her that euer Thy venoms sok'd through, making most of death; That she may weigh her wrongs with them, and then Stand vengeance on thy steepest rocke, a victor.