The Miseries of Enforced Marriage · chunk 17 of 47
Wilkins, George · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.78 · 541 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O wronged Clare? Accursed Scarborrow? I writ to her, that I was married, She writes to me, forgive her she is dead: I'll balm thy body with my faithful tears, And be perpetual mourner at thy Tomb, I'll sacrifice this Commit into sighs, Make a consumption of this pile of man, And all the benefits my parents gave, Shall turn distempered to appease the wrath For this blood shed, and I am guilty of. Dear husband. False woman, not my wife, though married to me, Look what thy friends, and thou art guilty of, The murder of a creature, equalled heaven In her Creation, whose thoughts like fire, Never looked base, but ever did aspire To blessed benefits, till you and yours undid her, Eye her, view, though dead, yet she does look, Like a fresh frame, or a new printed book Of the best paper, never looked into, But with one sullied finger, which did spot her, Which was her own too, but who was cause of it, Thou and thy friends, and I will loathe thee for't. They do belie her that do say she's dead, She is but strayed to some by-gallery, And I must ha' her again. Clare, where art thou Clare? Here, laid to take her everlasting sleep. A lies that says so, Yet now I know thee, I do lie that say it, For if she be a villain like thyself, A perjured Traitor, recreant, miscreant, Dog, a dog, a dog, has dunt. O Sir Iohn Harcop. O Sir Iohn villain, to be troth thyself To this good creature, harmless, harmless child, This kernel hope, and comfort of my house, Without Enforcement, of thine own accord, Draw all her soul i'th' compass of an oath, Take that oath from her, make her for none but thee, And then betray her? Shame on them were the cause of it. But hark what thou hast got by it, Thy wife is but a strumpet, thy children Bastards, thyself a murderer, thy wife, accessory, Thy bed a stews, thy house a Brothel. O, 'tis too true. ay, made a wretched father childless. ay, made a married man, yet wifeless. Thou the cause of it. Thou the cause of it. Curse on the day that ere it was begun, For I an old man am, undone, undone. For Charity have care upon your father, lest that his grief, bring on a more mishap, This to my arms, my sorrow shall bequeath, Though I have lost her, to thy grave I'll bring, Thou wert my wife, and I'll thy Requiem sing: Go you to the Country, I'll to London back, All riot now, since that my souls so black. Thus am I left like sea-tossed-mariners, My Fortunes being no more than my distress, Upon what shore soever I am driven, Be it good or bad, I must account it heaven, Though married, I am reputed not a wife, Neglected of my Husband, scorned, despised, And though my love and true obedience Lies prostrate to his beck, his heedless eye, Receives my services unworthily. I know no cause, nor will be cause of none, But hope for better days when bad be gone, You are my guide, whether must I, Butler?
nodes 701–771 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 17 of 47 in this edition
Length
541 words · 738 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.781 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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 wronged Clare? Accursed Scarborrow? I writ to her, that I was married, She writes to me, forgiue her she is dead: Ile balme thy body with my faithfull teares, And be perpetuall mourner at thy Tombe, Ile sacrifice this Commit into sighes, Make a consumption of this pile of man, And all the benefits my parents gaue, Shall turne distempered to appease the wrath For this blood shed, and I am guilty of. Deere husband. False woman, not my wife, tho married to me, Looke what thy friends, and thou art guilty of, The murther of a creature, equald heauen In her Creation, whose thoughts like fire, Neuer lookt base, but euer did aspire To blessed benefits, till you and yours vndid her, Eye her, view, tho dead, yet she dus looke, Like a fresh frame, or a new printed booke Of the best paper, neuer lookt into, But with one fullied finger, which did spot her, Which was her owne too, but who was cause of it, Thou and thy friends, and I will loath thee fort. They do bely her that do say shees dead, She is but straid to some by-gallery, And I must ha her againe. Clare, where art thou Clare? Here, laid to take her euerlasting sleepe. A lyes that sayes so, Yet now I know thee, I do lie that say it, For if she be a villen like thy selfe, A periurd Traitor, recreant, miscreant, Dog, a dog, a dog, has dunt. O Sir Iohn Harcop. O Sir Iohn villen, to be troth thy selfe To this good creature, harmelesse, harmeles child, This kernell hope, and comfort of my house, Without Inforcement, of thine own accord, Draw all her soule ith compasse of an oth, Take that oth from her, make her for none but thee, And then betray her? Shame on them were the cause of it. But harke what thou hast got by it, Thy wife is but a strumpet, thy children Bastards, Thy selfe a murderer, thy wife, accesary, Thy bed a stewes, thy house a Brothell. O, tis too true. I, made a wretched father childles. I, made a married man, yet wiueles. Thou the cause of it. Thou the cause of it. Curse on the day that ere it was begun, For I an old man am, vndone, vndone. For Charity haue care vpon your father, Least that his greefe, bring on a more mishap, This to my armes, my sorrow shall bequeath, Tho I haue lost her, to thy graue Ile bring, Thou wert my wife, and Ile thy Requiem sing: Go you to the Country, Ile to London backe, All ryot now, since that my soules so blacke. Thus am I left like Sea-tost-Marriners, My Fortunes being no more then my distresse, Vpon what shore soeuer I am driuen, Be it good or bad, I must account it heauen, Tho married, I am reputed not a wife, Neglected of my Husband, scornd, despis'd, And tho my loue and true obedience Lies prostrate to his becke, his heedles eye, Receiues my seruices vnworthily. I know no cause, nor will be cause of none, But hope for better dayes when bad be gone, You are my guide, whether must I, Butler?