Heywood, Thomas · published 1608 · first performed or written 1607 [1606-1608] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Anne's Men · Red Bull T38 Death, parting and grief at court typicality 0.84 · 485 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
here's a good Child. Remove it, we command, and bear his carcase to the funeral pile Where after this direction, let it have His solemn and due obsequies, fair Tullia, Thy hate to him grows from thy love to us. Thou showst thyself in this unnatural strife, an unkind Daughter, but a loving wife. But on unto our Palace this blessed day, A king's increase, grows by a king's decay. Murder the King, a high and capital treason. Those Giants that waged war against the Gods, For which o'erwhelmed Mountains hurled by Ioue, To scatter them, and give timeless Graves, Was not more cruel than this butchery. This slaughter made by Tarquin, but the Queen, A woman, fie, fie, did not this she parricide. add to her father's wounds: and when his body Lay all besmeared and stained in the blood royal, Did not this Monster, this infernal hag Make her unwilling, charioteer drive on, and with his shod wheels crush her Father's bones, Break his crazed skull, and dash his brains Upon the pavements, whilst she hold the rains? The affrighted Sun, at this abhorred object, Put on a mask of blood, and yet she blushed not, Ioue art thou just, hast thou reward for piety? and for offence no vengeance? or canst punish Felons, and pardon Traitors, chastise murderers, and wink at parricides? If thou be worthy as well we know thou art, to fill the Throne Of all eternity, then with that hand That flings the trisalitie thunder, let the pride Of these our Irreligious monarchisers Be crowned in blood: this makes poor Brutus mad, To see sin frolic, and the virtuous sad. Soft, here's Brutus, let us acquaint him with the news. Content, now Cousen Brutus: Who I your kinsman? though I be of the blood of the Tarquins, yet no cousen, gentle princes. And why so Brutus, scorn you our all yance? No, I was cousen to the Tarquins, when they were subjects, but dare claim no kindred, as they are sovereigns: Brutus is not so mad though he be merry, but he hath wit enough to keep his head on his shoulders. Why do you my Lord thus lose your hours, and neither profess war nor domestic profit? the first might beget you love, the other riches. Because I would live: have I not answered you because I would live? fools and Madmen are no rubes in the way of usurpers: the firmament can brook but one Sun, and for my part I must not shine: I had rather live an obscure black, then appear a fair white to be shot at, the end of all is, I would live had Servius been a shrub, the wind had not shook him, or a madman he had not perished: I covet no more wit nor employment then as much as will keep life and soul together, I would but live.
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)
Heer's a good Childe. Rem oue it, we commaund, and beare his carkasse to the funerall pile Where after this direction, let it haue His solemne and due obsequies, faire Tullia, Thy hate to him growes from thy loue to vs. Thou shewst thy selfe in this vnnaturall strife, an vnkinde Daughter, but alouing wife. But on vnto our Pallace this blest day, A Kings encrease, growes by a Kings decay. Murder the King, a high and capitall treason. Those Giants that wagde war against the Gods, For which ore-whelmed Mountaines hurld by Ioue, To scatter them, and giue timelesse Graues, Was not more cruell then this butcherie. This slaughter made by Tarquin, but the Queene, A woman, fie, fie, did not this shee parracide. ad to her fathers wounds: and when his body Lay all besmeard and staind in the blood royall, Did not this Monster, this infernate hagge Make her vnwilling, Chariater driue on, and with his shod wheeles crush her Fathers bones, Breake his craz'd scull, and dash his braines Vpon the pauements, whilst she hold the raines? The affrighted Sunne, at this abhorred obiect, Put on a maske of blood, and yet she blusht not, Ioue art thou iust, hast thou reward for pietie? and for offence no vengance? or canst punnish Fellons, and pardon Traitors, chastice murdrers, and winke at parracides? If thou be worthy as well we know thou art, to fill the Throane Of all eternitie, then with that hand That flings the trisalitie thunder, let the pride Of these our Irreligious monarkisers Be crown'd in blood: this makes poore Brutus mad, To see sin froliqu, and the vertuous sad. Soft, heeres Brutus, let vs acquaint him with the newes. Content, now Cousen Brutus: Who I your kinsman? though I be of the blood of the Tarquins, yet no cousen, gentle princes. And why so Btus, scorne you our all yance? No, I was cousen to the Tarquins, when they were subiects, but dare claime no kindred, as they are soueraignes: Brutus is not so mad though he be merrie, but hee hath wit enough to keepe his head on his shoulders. Why doe you my Lord thus loose your houres, and neither professe warre nor domestique profit? the first might beget you loue, the other riches. Because I would liue: haue I not answered you because I would liue? fooles and Mad-men are no rubes in the way of Vsurpers: the firmament can brook but one Sunne, and for my part I must not shine: I had rather liue an obscure black, then appeare a faire white to be shot at, the end of all , I would Serius bin a shrub, the winde had not shooke him, or a mad-man hee had not perisht: I couet no more wit nor imployment then as much as will keep life and soule together, I would but liue.