The Miseries of Enforced Marriage · chunk 16 of 47
Wilkins, George · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil typicality 0.82 · 510 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
God's precious, for his mercy, where's this wench? Must all my friends and guests attend on you? Where are you Minion? Scarborrow come close mine eyes, for I am dead. That sad voice was not hers I hope: whose's this, my daughter? Your daughter, That begs of you to see her buried, Prays Scarborrow to forgive her: she is dead. Patience good tears, and let my words have way Clare, my daughter, help my servants there: Lift up thine eyes, and look upon thy father, They were not borne to lose their light so soon, I did beget thee for my comforter, And not to be the Author of my care. Why speakst thou not? Some help my Servants there: What hand hath made thee pale? Or if thine own, What cause hadst thou that wert thy father's joy, The Treasure of his age, the Cradle of his sleep, His all in all? I prithee speak to me? Thou art not ripe for death, come back again, Clare, my Clare, If death must needs have one, I am the fittest, prithee let me go, Thou dying whilst I live, I am dead with woe. What means this outcry? O ruthful spectacle. Thou wert not wont to be so sullen child, But kind and loving to thy aged father: Awake, awake, If't be thy lasting sleep, Would I had not sense for grief, nor eyes to weep. What Papers this, the sad contents doth tell me, My Brother writ, he hath broke his faith to her, And she replies, for him she hath killed herself. Was that the cause that thou hast soiled thyself, With these red spots, these blemishers of beauty? My child, my child, was't perjury in him, Made thee so fair, act now so foul a fin, That he deceived thee in a Mother's hopes, Posterity, the bliss of marriage? Thou hast no tongue to answer no, or I, But in red Letters writes: For him I die. Curse on his Traitorous tongue, his youth, his blood, His pleasures, Children, and possessions, Be all his days like winter, comfortless: Restless his nights, his wants remorseless, And may his Corpse be the physicians stage, Which played upon, stands not to honoured Age, Or with diseases may he lie and pine, Till grief wastes blood, his eyes, as grief doth mine. O good old man, made wretched by this deed, The more thy age, were to be pitied. What ride by the gate, & not call, that were a shame i'faith. we'll but taste of his Beer, kiss his Daughter, and to horse again, where's the good Knight hear? You bring me to my shame unwillingly. Shamed of what, for deceiving of a wench, I ha' not blushed, that ha' done't to a hundred of 'em. In women's love he's wise, doth follow this, Love one so long till her another kiss. Where's the good Knight here? O Brother, you are come to make your eye Sad mourner at a fatal Tragedy. Peruse this Letter first, and then this Corpse.
seed 43: T37 · seed 44: T36 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Gods precious, for his mercy, wheres this wench? Must all my friends and guests attend on you? Where are you Minion? Scarborrow come close mine eyes, for I am dead. That sad voyce was not hers I hope: Whose this, my daughter? Your daughter, That begs of you to see her buried, Prayes Scarborrow to forgiue her: she is dead. Patience good teares, and let my words haue way Clare, my daughter, helpe my seruants there: Lift vp thine eyes, and looke vpon thy father, They were not borne to loose their light so soone, I did beget thee for my comforter, And not to be the Author of my care. Why speakst thou not? Some helpe my Seruants there: What hand hath made thee pale? Or if thine owne, What cause hadst thou that wert thy fathers Ioy, The Treasure of his age, the Cradle of his sleepe, His all in all? I prethee speake to me? Thou art not ripe for death, come backe againe, Clare, my Clare, If death must needs haue one, I am the fittest, prethee let me go, Thou dying whilst I liue, I am dead with woe. What meanes this outcry? O ruthfull spectacle. Thou wert not wont to be so sullen childe, But kind and louing to thy aged father: Awake, awake, Ift be thy lasting sleepe, Would I had not sence for griefe, nor eies to weepe. What Papers this, the sad contents doth tell me, My Brother writ, he hath broke his faith to her, And she replies, for him she hath kild her selfe. Was that the cause that thou hast soyld thy selfe, With these red spots, these blemishers of beauty? My child, my childe, wast periury in him, Made thee so fayre, act now so foule a finne, That he deceiued thee in a Mothers hopes, Posterity, the blisse of marriage? Thou hast no tung to answere no, or I, But in red Letters writes: For him I die. Curse on his Traiterous tung, his youth, his blood, His pleasures, Children, and possessions, Be all his dayes like winter, comfortlesse: Restles his nights, his wants Remorcelesse, And may his Corps be the Phisitians stage, Which plaid vpon, stands not to honored Age, Or with diseases may he lie and pine, Till greefe wasts blood, his eies, as greefe doth mine. O good old man, made wretched by this deed, The more thy age, were to be pittied. What ride by the gate, & not call, that were a shame yfaith. Weele but taste of his Beere, kisse his Daughter, and to horse againe, wheres the good Knight heare? You bring me to my shame vnwillingly. Shamed of what, for deceiuing of a wench, I ha not blusht, that ha dnut to a hundred of em. In womens loue hees wise, doth follow this, Loue one so long till her another kisse. Wheres the good Knight heere? O Brother, you are come to make your eie Sad mourner at a fatall Tragedy. Peruse this Letter first, and then this Corps.