Middleton, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
I am amazed to death. Nay villain traitor, Worse than the foulest Epithet, now I'll gripe thee e'en with the Nerves of wrath, and throw thy head Amongst the lawyer's guard. How comes the quiet of your Grace disturbed? This boy that should be myself after me, Would be myself before me, and in heat Of that ambition bloodily rushed in Intending to depose me in my bed? Duty and natural-loyalty forfend. He called his Father villain; and me strumpet, A word that I abhor to file my lips with. That was not so well done Brother? I am abused— I know there's no excuse can do me good. 'tis now good policy to be from sight, His vicious purpose to our sister's honour, Is crossed beyond our thought. You little dreamed his Father slept here. Oh 'twas far beyond me. But since it fell so;— without frightful word, Would he had killed him, 'twould have eased our swords. Be comforted our Duchess, he shall die. Where's this slave-pander now? out of mine eye, Guilty of this abuse. You're villains, Fablers, You have knaves chins, and harlot's tongues, you lie, And I will damn you with one meal a day. O good my Lord! 'sblood you shall never sup. O I beseech you sir. To let my sword— Catch cold so long and miss him. Troth my Lord— 'twas his intent to meet there. Heart he's yonder? Ha? what news here? is the day out o'th- socket, That it is Noon at Midnight; the Court up, How comes the Guard so saucy with his elbows? The Bastard here? Nay then the truth of my intent shall out, My Lord and Father hear me. Bear him hence. I can with loyalty excuse. Excuse? to prison with the Villain, Death shall not long lag after him. Good i'faith, then 'tis not much amiss, Brothers, my best release lies on your tongues, I pray persuade for me. It is our duties: make yourself sure of us. we'll sweat in pleading. And I may live to thank you. No, thy death shall thank me better. he's gone: I'll after him, And know his trespass, seem to bear a part In all his ills, but with a Puritan heart. Now brother, let our hate and love be woven So subtly together, that in speaking one word for his life, We may make three for his death, The craftiest pleader gets most gold for breath. Set on, I'll not be far behind you brother. Is't possible a son should be disobedient as far as the sword: it is the highest he can go no farther. My gracious Lord, take pity,— Pity boys? Nay weed be loath to move your Grace too much, we know the trespass is unpardonable, Black, wicked, and unnatural, In a Son, oh Monstrous. Yet my Lord, A Duke's soft hand strokes the rough head of law, And makes it lie smooth. But my hand shall near do't. That as you please my Lord.
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)
I am amazde to death. Nay villaine traytor, Worse then the fowlest Epithite, now Ile gripe thee Ee'n with the Nerues of wrath, and throw thy head Amongst the Lawyers gard. How comes the quiet of your Grace disturbd? This boye that should be my selfe after mee, Would be my selfe before me, and in heate Of that ambition bloudily rusht in Intending to depose me in my bed? Duty and naturall-loyalty for-fend. He cald his Father villaine; and me strumpet, A word that I abhorre to file my lips with. That was not so well done Brother? I am abusde—I know ther's no excuse can do me good. Tis now good policie to be from sight, His vicious purpose to our sisters honour, Is crost beyond our thought. You little dreamt his Father slept heere. Oh 'twas farre beyond me. But since it fell so;—without fright-full word, Would he had kild him, twould haue easde our swords. Be comforted our Duchesse, he shall dye. Where's this slaue-pander now? out of mine eye, Guiltie of this abuse. Y'are villaines, Fablers, You haue knaues chins, and harlots tongues, you lie, And I will dam you with one meale a day. O good my Lord! Sbloud you shall neuer sup. O I beseech you sir. To let my sword—Catch cold so long and misse him. Troth my Lord—Twas his intent ro meete there. Heart hee's yonder? Ha? what newes here? is the day out ath-socket, That it is Noone at Mid-night; the Court vp, How comes the Guard so sawcie with his elbowes? The Bastard here? Nay then the truth of my intent shall out, My Lord and Father heare me. Beare him hence. I can with loyaltie excuse. Excuse? to prison with the Villaine, Death shall not long lag after him. Good ifaith, then 'tis not much amisse, Brothers, my best release lies on your tongues, I pray perswade for mee. It is our duties: make your selfe sure of vs. Weele sweate in pleading. And I may liue to thanke you. No, thy death shall thanke me better. Hee's gon: Ile after him, And know his trespasse, seeme to beare a part In all his ills, but with a Puritane heart. Now brother, let our hate and loue be wouen So subtilly together, that in speaking one word for his life, We may make three for his death, The craftiest pleader gets most gold for breath. Set on, Ile not be farre behinde you brother. Ist possible a sonne should bee disobedient as farre as the sword: it is the highest he can goe no farther. My gratious Lord, take pitty,— Pitty boyes? Nay weed be loth to mooue your Grace too much, Wee know the tre'passe is vnpardonable, Black, wicked, and vnnaturall, In a Sonne, oh Monstrous. Yet my Lord, A Dukes soft hand stroakes the rough head of law, And makes it lye smooth. But my hand shall nere doot. That as you please my Lord.