Greville, Fulke · published 1633 · first performed or written 1596 [c.1594-c.1596] (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.75 · 476 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Ross●! Not words, but deeds please Hell, or Heauen: I feare to tell; I tremble to conceale; Fortune, vnto the death, is then displeas'd, When remedies doe ruine the diseas'd. Vse not these Parables of coward Feare: Feare hurts lesse when it strikes, than when it threatens. If Mustapha shall die, his death miscarries Part of thy end, thy Fame, thy Friends, thy Ioy: Who will, to hurt his foes, himselfe destroy? My selfe? What is it else but my desire? My Brother, Father, Mother, and my God, Are but those steps which helpe me to aspire. Mustapha had neuer truer friend than I, That would not with him liue, but with him die. Yet tell: What is the worst? Camena must, with him, a Traytor be; Or Mustapha, for her sake, must be free. O cruell Fates! that doe in Loue plant Woe, And in ●elights make our Disasters grow. But speake: What hath she done? Vndone thy doing. Discouer'd vnto Mustapha his danger: And from these relikes, I doe more than doubt, Her confidence brings Solyman about. Nay, blacke Auernus! so I doe adore thee, As I lament my Wombe hath beene so barren, To yeeld but one to offer vp before thee. Who thinks the Daughters death can Mothers stay From ends, whereon a Womans heart is fixt, Weighs harmelesse Nature, without passion mixt. Is Mother by the woman ouerthrowne? Rage knowes no Kinne: Power is aboue the Law, And must not curious be of base Respect, Which onely they command that doe neglect. Your Childs death angers him whom you must please. My ends are great: Small things are wrought with ease. This plants confusion in the Powers aboue. My end is not to quiet, but to moue. God plagues Iniustice in so great excesse. The doing minds feele not that idlenesse. What if this Worke proue not conspiracie, But care, that with all duties may agree? 'Tis priuate Fortune that is built on Truth: Iustice is but of great Estates the youth. Yet by the Loue of Mothers to their Children, By all the paines of trauaile, so well knowne, Punish, but yet spare life; It is your owne. I doe protest no Terrors, no Desires, Glories of fame, nor Rumors iniuries, Could, in a Mothers heart, haue quench'd the fire Of louing kindnesse, to her children borne: It conquer'd is with nothing, but with scorne. I am resolu'd to moue the wheeles of Fate. Her Triumph shall be paine; her Glorie shame: Horror is of excesse a iust reward: The giuers of example haue regard. WHat meane these mortall children of mine owne, Vngratefully, against me to complaine, That all I build is by me ouerthrowne? Vices put vnder to rise vp againe? That on my wheeles both Good, and Ill doe moue; The one beneath, while th'other is aboue?
nodes 1479–1540 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 24 of 42 in this edition
Length
476 words · 738 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.755 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Ross! Not words, but deeds please Hell, or Heauen: I feare to tell; I tremble to conceale; Fortune, vnto the death, is then displeas'd, When remedies doe ruine the diseas'd. Vse not these Parables of coward Feare: Feare hurts lesse when it strikes, than when it threatens. If Mustapha shall die, his death miscarries Part of thy end, thy Fame, thy Friends, thy Ioy: Who will, to hurt his foes, himselfe destroy? My selfe? What is it else but my desire? My Brother, Father, Mother, and my God, Are but those steps which helpe me to aspire. Mustapha had neuer truer friend than I, That would not with him liue, but with him die. Yet tell: What is the worst? Camena must, with him, a Traytor be; Or Mustapha, for her sake, must be free. O cruell Fates! that doe in Loue plant Woe, And in elights make our Disasters grow. But speake: What hath she done? Vndone thy doing. Discouer'd vnto Mustapha his danger: And from these relikes, I doe more than doubt, Her confidence brings Solyman about. Nay, blacke Auernus! so I doe adore thee, As I lament my Wombe hath beene so barren, To yeeld but one to offer vp before thee. Who thinks the Daughters death can Mothers stay From ends, whereon a Womans heart is fixt, Weighs harmelesse Nature, without passion mixt. Is Mother by the woman ouerthrowne? Rage knowes no Kinne: Power is aboue the Law, And must not curious be of base Respect, Which onely they command that doe neglect. Your Childs death angers him whom you must please. My ends are great: Small things are wrought with ease. This plants confusion in the Powers aboue. My end is not to quiet, but to moue. God plagues Iniustice in so great excesse. The doing minds feele not that idlenesse. What if this Worke proue not conspiracie, But care, that with all duties may agree? 'Tis priuate Fortune that is built on Truth: Iustice is but of great Estates the youth. Yet by the Loue of Mothers to their Children, By all the paines of trauaile, so well knowne, Punish, but yet spare life; It is your owne. I doe protest no Terrors, no Desires, Glories of fame, nor Rumors iniuries, Could, in a Mothers heart, haue quench'd the fire Of louing kindnesse, to her children borne: It conquer'd is with nothing, but with scorne. I am resolu'd to moue the wheeles of Fate. Her Triumph shall be paine; her Glorie shame: Horror is of excesse a iust reward: The giuers of example haue regard. WHat meane these mortall children of mine owne, Vngratefully, against me to complaine, That all I build is by me ouerthrowne? Vices put vnder to rise vp againe? That on my wheeles both Good, and Ill doe moue; The one beneath, while th'other is aboue?