Heywood, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1603 [Feb 12-Mar 6, payment] (Annals) tragedy · Worcester's Men unassigned nearest T11 Siblings, kin and confidants · 510 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
Again to prison, Malby hast thou seen, A poor slave better tortured: shall we hear The music of his voice cry from the grate Meat for the lord's sake: no, no, yet I am not thoroughly revenged: they say he hath a pretty wench Unto his sister, shall I in mercy's sake To him and to his kindred bribe the fool, To shame herself by lewd dishonest lust, I'll proffer largely, but the deed being done I'll smile to see her base confusion. Methinks Sir Francis you are full revenged, For greater wrongs than he can proffer you, See where the poor sad Gentlewoman stands. Ha, ha, now I will flout her poverty, Deride her fortunes, scoff her base estate, My very soul the name of Mountford hates. But stay, my heart, or what a look did fly To strike my soul through with thy piercing eye, I am enchanted, all my spirits are fled, And with one glance my envious spleen stroke dead. Acton that seeks our blood. O chaste and fair. Sir Francis, why Sir Francis, zounds in a trance, Sir Francis, what cheer man? Come, come, how is't? Was she not fair, or else this judging eye Cannot distinguish beauty. She was fair. She was an Angel in a mortal's shape, And near descended from old Mountford's line. But soft, soft, let me call my wits together, A poor, poor wench, to my great adversary Sister, whose very souls denounce stern war One against other, how now Frank turned fool, Or madman, whether, but no master of My perfect senses and directest wits, Then why should I be in this violent humour Of passion, and of love, and with a person So different every way, and so opposed In all contractions and still warring actions: Fie, fie, how I dispute against my soul, Come, come, I'll gain her, or in her fair quest Purchase my soul free and immortal rest. So, march in order and retire in battle ray, my master and the guests have supped already, als taken away, here now spread for the servingmen in the hall, Butler it belongs to your office. I know it Ienkin: what do you call the Gentleman that supped there tonight? Who my master? No, no, master Wendol, he is a daily guest, I mean the Gentleman that came but this afternoon. His name is M. Cranwell: God's light, hark within there, my M. calls to lay more billets on the fire: Come, come, Lord how we that are in office here in the house are troubled: one spread the Carpet in the parlour, & stand ready to snuff the lights, the rest be ready to prepare their stomachs. More lights in the hall there: come Nicklas. I cannot eat, but had I Wendol's heart, I would eat that, the rogue grows impudent: Oh I have seen such vild notorious tricks Ready to make my eyes dart from my head, I'll tell my master, by this air I will, Fall what may fall, I'll tell him: Here he comes.
seed 43: T15 · seed 44: T12 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Againe to prison, Malby hast thou seene, A poore slaue better torturd: shal we heare The musicke of his voice cry from the grate Meat for the Lord sake: no, no, yet I am not Throughly reuengd: they say he hath a pretty wench Vnto his sister, shal I in mercy sake To him and to his kindred bribe the foole, To shame her selfe by lewd dishonest lust, Ile profer largely, but the deed being done Ile smile to see her base confusion. Methinks Sir Francis you are ful reueng'd, For greater wrongs then he can profer you, See where the poore sad Gentlewoman stands. Ha, ha, now I will flout her pouerty, Deride her fortunes, scoffe her base estate, My very soule the name of Mountford hates. But stay, my hart, or what a looke did flie To strike my soule through with thy piercing eie, I am inchanted, al my spirits are fled, And with one glance my enuious splene stroke dead. Acton that seekes our blood. O chast and faire. Sir Francis, why Sir Francis, zounds in a trance, Sir Francis, what cheare man? Come, come, how ist? Was she not faire, or else this Iudging ei Cannot distinguish beauty. She was faire. She was an Angel in a mortals shape, And nere descended from old Mountfords line. But soft, soft, let me cal my wits together, A poore, poore wench, to my great aduersary Sister, whose very soules denounce sterne warre One against other, how now Franke turnd foole, Or madman, whether, but no maister of My perfect sences and directest wits, Then why should I be in this violent humor Of passion, and of loue, and with a person So different euery way, and so oppos'd In al contractions and stil warring actions: Fie, fie, how I dispute against my soule, Come, come, Ile gaine her, or in her faire quest Purchase my soule free and immortal rest. So, march in order and retyre in battel ray, my maister and the guests haue supt already, als taken away, here now spred for the seruingmen in the hal, Butler it belongs to your office. I kow it Ienkin: what do you cal the Gentleman that supt there tonight? Who my maister? No, no, maister Wendol, hee is a daily ghuest, I mean the Gentleman that came but this afternoone. His name is M. Cranwel: Gods light, hark within there, my M. cals to lay more billets on the fire: Come, come, Lorde how wee that are in office here in the house are troubled: one spred the Carpet in the parlor, & stand ready to snuffe the lights, the rest be ready to prepare their stomacks. More lights in the hal there: come Nicklas. I cannot eat, but had I Wendols hart, I would eat that, the rogue grows impudent: Oh I haue seene such vild notorious tricks Ready to make my eies dart from my head, Ile tel my maister, by this ayre I wil, Fal what may fal, Ile tel him: Here he comes.