Middleton, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.79 · 478 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
My royal father, too basely let blood, By a malevolent slave. Hark? he calls thee slave again. Has lost, he may. Oh sight, look hither, see, his lips are gnawn with poison. How— his lips byth' mass they be. O villain— O rogue— O slave— O rascal: O good deceit, he quits him with like terms. Where. Which way. Over what roof hangs this prodigious Comet, In deadly fire. Behold, behold my Lords the Duke my fathers murdered by a vassal, that owes this habit, and here left disguised. My Lord and husband. Reverend Majesty. I have seen these clothes, often attending on him. That Nobleman, has been i'th' Country, for he does not lie? Learn of our mother let's dissemble to, I am glad he's vanished; so I hope are you? I you may take my word for't. Old Dad, dead? ay, one of his cast sins will send the Fates Most hearty commendations by his own son, I'll tug in the new stream, till strength be done. Where be those two, that did affirm to us? My Lord the Duke was privately rid forth? O pardon us my Lords, he gave that charge Upon our lives if he were missed at Court, To answer so; he rode not anywhere, We left him private with that fellow here? confirmed. O heavens, that false charge was his death, Impudent Beggars, durst you to our face, Maintain such a false answer? bear him straight to execution. My Lord? Urge me no more. In this the excuse, may be called half the murder? you've sentenced well. Away see it be done. Could you not stick: see what confession doth? Who would not lie when men are hanged for truth? Brother how happy is our vengeance. Why it hits, past the apprehension of indifferent wits. My Lord let post horse be sent, Into all places to entrap the villain, Post-horse ha ha. My Lord, we're something bold to know our duty? Your fathers accidentally departed, The titles that were due to him, meet you. Meet me? I'm not at leisure my good Lord, I've many griefs to dispatch out ath way: Welcome sweet titles,— talk to me my Lords, Of sepulchres, and mighty Emperor's bones, That's thought for me. So, one may see by this, How foreign markets go: Courtiers have feet ath nines, and tongues ath twelves, They flatter Dukes and Dukes flatter themselves. My Lord it is your shine must comfort us. Alas I shine in tears like the Sun in April. Your now my Lords grace? My Lords grace? I perceive you'll have it so. 'tis but your own. Then heavens give me grace to be so? He prays well for himself. madam all sorrows, Must run their circles into joys, no doubt but time, Will make the murderer bring forth himself. He were an Ass then i'faith?
seed 43: T0 · seed 44: T0 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
My royall father, too basely let bloud, By a maleuolent slaue. Harke? he calls thee slaue agen. Ha's lost, he may. Oh sight, looke hether, see, his lips are gnawn with poysō. How—his lips by'th masse they bee. O villaine—O roague—O slaue—O rascall: O good deceite, he quits him with like tearmes. Where. Which way. Ouer what roofe hangs this prodigious Comet, In deadly fire. Behold, behold my Lords the Duke my fathers murderd by a vassaile, that owes this habit, and here left disguisde. My Lord and husband. Reuerend Maiesty. I haue seene these cloths, often attending on him. That Nobleman, has bin ith Country, for he dos not lie? Learne of our mother lets dissemble to, I am glad hee's vanisht; so I hope are you? I you may take my word fort. Old Dad, dead? I, one of his cast sinnes will send the Fates Most hearty commendations by his owne sonne, Ile tug in the new strcame, till strength be done. Where be those two, that did affirme to vs? My Lord the Duke was priuately rid forth? O pardon vs my Lords, hee gaue that charge Vpon our liues if he were mist at Court, To answer so; hee rode not any where, We left him priuate with that fellow here? Confirmde. O heauens, that false charge was his death, Impudent Beggars, durst you to our face, Maintaine such a false answer? beare him straight to execution. My Lord? Vrge me no more. In this the excuse, may be cal'd halfe the murther? Yo'ue sentencde well. Away see it be done. Could you not stick: see what confession doth? Who would not lie when men are hangd for truth? Brother how happy is our vengeance. Why it hits, past the apprehension of indifferent wits. My Lord let post horse be sent, Into all places to intrap the villaine, Post-horse ha ha. My Lord, we're som-thing bould to know our duety? Your fathers accidentally departed, The titles that were due to him, meete you. Meete me? I'me not at leisure my good Lord, I'ue many greefes to dispatch out ath way: Welcome sweete titles,—talke to me my Lords, Offepulchers, and mighty Emperors bones, Thats thought for me. So, one may see by this, How forraine markets goe: Courtiers haue feete ath nines, and tongues ath twellues, They flatter Dukes and Dukes flatter them-selues. My Lord it is your shine must comfort vs. Alas I shine in teares like the Sunne in Aprill. Your now my Lords grace? My Lords grace? I perceiue youle haue it so. Tis but your owne. Then heauens giue me grace to be so? He praies wel for him-selfe. Madame all sorrowes, Must runne their circles into ioyes, no doubt but time, Wil make the murderer bring forth him-selfe. He were an Asse then yfaith?