The Tragedy of Charles Duke of Byron · chunk 30 of 37
Chapman, George · published 1608 · first performed or written 1608 [1607-1608] (Annals) tragedy · Children of the Queen's Revels T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.81 · 482 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
He said not this my Lord, that I have heard. This or the like, I swear. I pen no speeches. Then there is good hope of your wished acquittal. Acquittal? they have reason; were I dead I know they can not all supply my place; be't possible the King should be so vain, To think he can shake me with fear of death? Or make me apprehend that he intends it? Thinks he to make his firmest men, his clouds? The clouds (observing their Aerial natures) Are borne aloft, and then to moisture hanged, Fall to the earth; where being made thick, and cold, They lose both all their heat, and levity; Yet then again recovering heat and lightness, Again they are advanced: and by the Sun Made fresh and glorious; and since clouds are rapt With these uncertainties: now up, now down, Am I to flit so with his smile, or frown? I wish your comforts, and encouragements, May spring out of your safety; but I hear The King hath reasoned so against your life, And made your most friends yield so to his reasons, That your estate is fearful. Yield t' his reasons? O how friends reasons, and their freedoms stretch, When power sets his wide tenters to their sides! How, like a cure, by mere opinion, It works upon our blood? like th' ancient Gods Are Modern Kings, that lived past bounds themselves, Yet set a measure down, to wretched men: By many Sophisms, they made good, deceit; And, since they passed in power, surpassed, in right: When Kings wills pass; the stars wink, and the Sun, Suffers eclipse: rude thunder yields to them His horrid wings: sits smooth as glass engazd, And lightning sticks twixt heaven and earth amazed: Men's faiths are shaken: and the pit of truth o'erflows with darkness, in which justice sits, And keeps her vengeance tied to make it fierce; And when it comes, th' increased horrors show, heavens plague is sure, though full of state, and slow. O my dear Lord and brother, O the Duke? What sounds are these my Lord? hark, hark, methinks I hear the cries of people. 'tis for one, Wounded in fight here at Saint Anthony's Gate: 'sfoot, one cried the Duke. I pray hearken, Again, or burst yourselves with silence, no: What countryman's the common headsman here? He's a Bourgonian. The great devil he is, The bitter wizard told me, a Burgonian, Should be my headsman; strange concurrences: 'Sdeath whose's here? O then I am but dead, Now, now ye come all to pronounce my sentence. I am condemned unjustly: tell my kinsfolks, I die an innocent: If any friend pity the ruin of the state's sustainer Proclaim my innocence; ah Lord Chancellor, Is there no pardon? will there come no mercy? ay, put your hat on, and let me stand bare, Show yourself right a Lawyer.
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He said not this my Lord, that I haue heard. This or the like, I sweare▪ I pen no speeches. Then there is good hope of your wisht acquitall. Acquitall? they haue reason; were I dead I know they can not all supply my place; Ist possible the King should be so vaine, To thinke he can shake me with feare of death? Or make me apprehend that he intends it? Thinkes he to make his firmest men, his clowds? The clowdes (obseruing their Aeriall natures) Are borne aloft, and then to moisture hang'd, Fall to the earth; where being made thick, and cold, They loose both al their heate, and leuitie; Yet then againe recouering heate and lightnesse, Againe they are aduanc't: and by the Sunne Made fresh and glorious; and since clowdes are rapt With these vncertainties: now vp, now downe, Am I to flit so with his smile, or froune? I wish your comforts, and incoradgments, May spring out of your saftie; but I heare The King hath reasond so against your life, And made your most friends yeeld so to his reasons, That your estate is fearefull. Yeeld t' his reasons? O how friends reasons, and their freedomes stretch, When powre sets his wide tenters to their sides! How, like a cure, by mere opinion, It workes vpon our bloud? like th' antient Gods Are Moderne Kings, that liu'd past bounds themselues, Yet set a measure downe, to wretched men▪ By many Sophismes, they made good, deceipt; And, since they past in powre, surpast, in right: When Kings wills passe; the starres winck, and the Sunne, Suffers eclips: rude thunder yeelds to them His horrid wings: sits smoothe as glasse engazd, And lightning sticks twixt heauen and earth amazd: Mens faiths are shaken: and the pit of truth O'reflowes with darkenesse, in which Iustice sits, And keepes her vengeance tied to make it fierce; And when it comes, th' encreased horrors showe, Heauens plague is sure, though full of state, and slowe. O my deare Lord and brother, O the Duke? What sounds are these my Lord? hark, hark, me thinks I heare the cries of people. Tis for one, Wounded in fight here at Saint Anthonies Gate: Sfoote, one cried the Duke. I pray harken, Againe, or burst your selues with silence, no: What contriman's the common headsman here? He's a Bourgonian. The great deuill he is, The bitter wizerd told me, a Burgonian, Should be my headsman; strange concurrences: S'death whose here? O then I am but dead, Now, now ye come all to pronounce my sentence. I am condemn'd vniustly: tell my kinsfolkes, I die an innocent: If any friend pittie the ruine of the States sustainer Proclaime my innocence; ah Lord Chancelor, Is there no pardon? will there come no mercie? I, put your hat on, and let me stand bare, Showe your selfe right a Lawier.