Middleton, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T11 Siblings, kin and confidants · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
Are you so barbarous to set Iron nipples Upon the breast that gave you suck. That breast, Is turned to Quarled poison. Cut not your days for't, am not I your mother? Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd. A bawd? O name far loathsomer than hell. It should be so knewst thou thy Office well. I hate it. Ah is't possible, Thou only, you powers on high, That women should dissemble when they die. Dissemble. Did not the Duke's son direct A fellow, of the world's condition, hither, That did corrupt all that was good in thee: Made thee uncivilly forget thyself, And work our sister to his lust. Who I, That had been monstrous? I defy that man: For any such intent, none lives so pure, But shall be soiled with slander,— good son believe it not, Oh I'm in doubt, Whether I'm myself, or no, Stay, let me look again upon this face. Who shall be saved when mothers have no grace. 'twould make one half despair. I was the man, Defy me, now? let's see, do't modestly. O hell unto my soul. In that disguise, I sent from the Duke's son, Tried you, and found you base metal, As any villain might have done. One, no tongue but yours could have bewitched me so. O nimble in damnation, quick in tune, There is no devil could strike fire so soon: I am confuted in a word. Oh sons, forgive me, to myself i'll prove more true, You that should honour me, I kneel to you. A mother to give aim to her own daughter. True brother, how far beyond nature 'tis, Though many Mother's do't. Nay and you draw tears once, go you to bed, Wet will make iron blush and change to red: Brother it rains, 'twill spoil your dagger, house it. 'tis done. I'faith 'tis a sweet shower, it does much good, The fruitful grounds, and meadows of her soul, Has been long dry: power down thou blessed dew, Rise Mother, troth this shower has made you higher. O you heavens? take this infectious spot out of my soul, I'll rinse it in seven waters of mine eyes? Make my tears salt enough to taste of grace, To weep, is to our sex: naturally given: But to weep truly that's a gift from heaven? Nay I'll kiss you now: kiss her brother? Let's marry her to our souls, wherein's no lust, And honourably love her. Let it be. For honest women are so filled and rare, 'tis good to cherish those poor few that are. Oh you of easy wax, do but imagine Now the disease has left you, how leprously That Office would have clinged unto your forehead, All mothers that had any graceful hue, Would have worn masks to hide their face at you: It would have grown to this, at your foul name; Green-colored maids would have turned red with shame?
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)
Are you so barbarous to set Iron nipples Vpon the brest that gaue you suck. That brest, Is turnd to Quarled poyson. Cut not your daies for't, am not I your mother? I hou dost vsurpe that title now by fraud For in that shell of mother breeds a bawde. A bawde? O name far oathsomer then hell. It should be so knewst thou thy Office well. I hate it. Ah ist possible, Thou onely, you powers on hie, That women should dissemble when they die. Dissemble. Did not the Dukes sonne direct A fellow, of the worlds condition, hither, That did corrupt all that was good in thee: Made thee vnciuilly forget thy selfe, And worke our sister to his lust. Who I, That had beene monstrous? I defie that man: For any such intent, none liues so pure, But shall be soild with slander,—good sonne beleiue it not, Oh I'me in doubt, Whether I'me my selfe, or no, Stay, let me looke agen vpon this face. Who shall be sau'd when mothers haue no grace. Twould make one halfe dispaire. I was the man, Defie me, now? lets see, do't modestly. O hell vnto my soule. In that disguize, I sent from the Dukes sonne, Tryed you, and found you base mettell, As any villaine might haue donne. One, no tongue but yours could haue bewitcht me so. O nimble in damnation, quick in tune, There is no diuill could strike fire so soone: I am confuted in a word. Oh sonnes, forgiue me, to my selfe ile proue more true, You that should honor me, I kneele to you. A mother to giue ayme to her owne daughter. True brother, how far beyond nature 'tis, Tho many Mothers do't. Nay and you draw teares once, go you to bed, Wet will make yron blush and change to red: Brother it raines, twill spoile your dagger, house it. Tis done. Yfaith tis a sweete shower, it dos much good, The fruitfull grounds, and meadowes of her soule, Has beene long dry: powre downe thou blessed dew, Rise Mother, troth this shower has made you higher. O you heauens? take this infectious spot out of my soule, Ile rence it in seauen waters of mine eyes? Make my teares salt ynough to tast of grace, To weepe, is to our sexe: naturally giuen: But to weepe truely thats a gift from heauen? Nay Ile kisse you now: kisse her brother? Lets marry her to our soules, wherein's no lust, And honorably loue her. Let it be. For honest women are so sild and rare, Tis good to cherish those poore few that are. Oh you of easie waxe, do but imagine Now the disease has left you, how leprously That Office would haue cling'd vnto your forehead, All mothers that had any gracefull hue, Would haue worne maskes to hide their face at you: It would haue growne to this, at your foule name; Greene-collour'd maides would haue turnd red with shame?