Heywood, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1603 [Feb 12-Mar 6, payment] (Annals) tragedy · Worcester's Men unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 491 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
Pursued with horror of a guilty soul, And with the sharp scourge of repentance lashed, I fly from my own shadow: oh my stars What have my parents in their lives deserved, That you should lay this penance on their son? When I but think of master Frankford's love, And lay it to my treason, or compare My murdering him for his relieving me, It strikes a terror like a lightning's flash, To search my blood up: thus I like the Owl Ashamed of day, live in these shadowy woods Afraid of every leaf or murmuring blast, Yet longing to receive some perfect knowledge How he hath dealt with her: Oh my sad fate, Here, and so far from home, and thus attended: Oh God, I have divorced the truest Turtles That ever lived together, and being divided In several places, make their several moan; She in the fields laments, and he at home. So Poets write that Orpheus made the trees, And stones to dance, to his melodious harp, meaning the rustic and the barbarous Hinds, That had no understanding part in them, So she from these rude Carters tears extracts, Making their flinty hearts with grief to rise, And draw Rivers from their rocky eyes. If you return unto your master say: Though not from me, for I am all unworthy To blast his name with a strumpet's tongue, That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead: nay, you may say to, for my vow is past, Last night you saw me eat and drink my last. This to you master you may say and swear, For it is writ in heaven and decreed here. I'll say you wept, I'll swear you made me sad, Why how now eyes; what now, what's here to do? I am gone, or I shall straight turn baby to. I cannot weep, my heart is all on fire, Cursed be the fruits of my unchaste desire. Go break this lute my Coaches wheel, As the last music that I ere shall make, not as my husband's gift, but my farewell, To all earth's joy, and so your master tell. If I can for crying. Grief have done, Or like a Madman I shall frantic run. You have beheld the woefullest wretch on earth, A woman made of tears, would you had words To express but what you see: my inward grief No tongue can utter, yet unto your power You may describe my sorrow, and disclose To thy sad master my abundant woes. I'll do your commendations. O no: I dare not so presume, nor to my children, I am disclaimed in both; alas I am, Oh never teach them when they come to speak, To name the name of Mother: chide their tongue If they by chance light on that hated word: Tell them 'tis nought: for when that word they name, Poor pretty souls they harp on their own 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)
Pursued with horro of a guilty soule, And with the sharpe scourge of repentance lasht, I flye from my owne shadow: my stars What haue my parents in their liues deserud, That you should lay this penance on their sonne? When I but thinke of maister Franckfords loue, And lay it to my treason, or compare My mudring him for his releeuing me, It strikes a terror like a lightnings flash, To serch my bloud vp: thus I like the Owle Ashamd of day, liue in these shadowy woods Afraid of euery leafe or murmuring blast, Yet longing to receiue some perfect knowledge How he hath dealt with her: Oh my sad fate, Here, and so far from home, and thus attended: Oh God, I haue deuorst the truest Turtles That euer liud together, and being diuided In seuerall places, make their seuerall mone; She in the fieldes laments, and he at home. So Poets write that Orpheus made the trees, And stones to dance, to his melodious harp, meaning the rusticke and the barbarous Hinds, That had no vnderstanding part in them, So she from these rude Carters teares extracts, Making their flinty harts with griefe to rise, And draw Riuers from their rocky eyes. If you returne vnto your maister say: Though not from me, for I am all vnworthy To blast his name with a strumpets tongue, That you haue seene me weepe, wish my selfe dead: nay, you may say to, for my vow is past, Last night you saw me eate and drinke my last. This to you maister you may say and sweare, For it is writ in heauen and decreed here. Ile say you wept, Ile sweare you made me sad, Why how now eyes; what now, whats here to do? I am gone, or I shall strait turne baby to. I cannot weep, my hart is all on fire, Curst be the fruits of my vnchast desire. Go breake this lute my Coaches whele, As the last musicke that I ere shall make, not as my husbands guift, but my farewel, To all earths ioy, and so your maister tell. If I can for crying. Griefe haue done, Or like a Madman I shall frantick run. You haue beheld the wofullest wretch on earth, A woman made of teares, would you had words To expresse but what you see: my inward griefe No tongue can vtter, yet vnto your power You may discribe my sorrow, and disclose To thy sad maister my aboundant woes. Ile do your commendations. O no: I dare not so presume, nor to my children, I am disclaimd in both; alasse I am, Oh neuer teach them when they come to speake, To name the name of Mother: chide their tongue If they by chance light on that hated word: Tell them tis nought: for when that word they name, Poore pretty soules they harpe on their owne shame.