Greville, Fulke · published 1633 · first performed or written 1596 [c.1594-c.1596] (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.85 · 510 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
When hither I from Mustapha return'd, And had made you accompt of my Commission; Rossa, whose heart in care for your health burn'd, Curiously after Mustapha inquiring, A token spies, which I from hence did beare, For Mustapha by sweet Camena wrought; Yet gaue it not; for I beganne to feare, And something in it more than kindnesse thought. No sooner she espi'd this pretious gift, But, as enrag'd, hands on her selfe she layes; From me, as one that from her selfe would shift, She runnes; nor till she found Camena stayes. I follow, and finde both their voices high, The one as doing, th'other suffring paine: But whether your Camena liue, or die, Or dead, if she by rage, or guilt be slaine; If she made Rossa mad, or Rossa mad To hurt things dearest to her selfe be glad, I know not. But ô Solyman! make haste; For Mans despaire is but occasion past. What! Am I not mine owne? Who dare vsurpe To take this Kingdome of my selfe from me? Nature hath lied. She saith, Life vnto many May be denied, but not death vnto any. O Solyman! I haue at once transgress'd The lawes of Nature, and thy lawes of State: I wretched am, and you vnfortunate. Declare what Storme is this? What Accident? Thy self e-accusing doth excuse intent. Sir, odious is the fact on euery side: The remedie is more than you can beare; And more must fall vpon you than you feare. What threatning's this? what horror? what despite? Kings thoughts to Iealousie are ouer-tender. And any weaknesse many doth engender. Rossa! what meanes this venome of thy breath? Reuenge, and Iustice both require my death. Then tell. And lose the priuiledge of death. Then tell, and die. Nay tell, and liue a worthy death. Rippenot my wounds, deare Lord! silence is fit: My life hath shame, and death must couer it. What should be secret vnto thoughts that loue? All imperfections that offence do moue. What guiltinesse cannot Goodwill forgiue? These horrors which in stained soules doe liue. Are thy faults to thy selfe, or vnto me? To both alike. Remedilesse they be. Yet shew me trust: it proues your heart is pure, To me, and all crimes else Kings can endure. Imagine all the depths of wickednesse: My wombe as hell; my soule the world of sinne; Confusion in my thoughts, feare mercilesse; Without me Shame; Impenitence within. These words are not of charge, but intercession, As arguing not your Guilt, but your Oppression. Yet least I faile, and error multiply, Declare what's done? What moues this agonie? Thy Child is slaine. These hands imbrued are, Euen in her bowells, whom I nurs'd with care. So strange a death includes some odious crime. She did conspire. Silence deuoures the rest. Horror I apprehend, Danger, Despaire: All these lie hidden in this word, Conspire. This Wretch conspir'd the ruine of this State. Sir! aske no more: for Ills goe in a blood; You heare already more than doth you good.
nodes 1734–1801 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 28 of 42 in this edition
Length
510 words · 795 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.849 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
When hither I from Mustapha return'd, And had made you accompt of my Commission; Rossa, whose heart in care for your health burn'd, Curiously after Mustapha inquiring, A token spies, which I from hence did beare, For Mustapha by sweet Camena wrought; Yet gaue it not; for I beganne to feare, And something in it more than kindnesse thought. No sooner she espi'd this pretious gift, But, as enrag'd, hands on her selfe she layes; From me, as one that from her selfe would shift, She runnes; nor till she found Camena stayes. I follow, and finde both their voices high, The one as doing, th'other suffring paine: But whether your Camena liue, or die, Or dead, if she by rage, or guilt be slaine; If she made Rossa mad, or Rossa mad To hurt things dearest to her selfe be glad, I know not. But ô Solyman! make haste; For Mans despaire is but occasion past. What! Am I not mine owne? Who dare vsurpe To take this Kingdome of my selfe from me? Nature hath lied. She saith, Life vnto many May be denied, but not death vnto any. O Solyman! I haue at once transgress'd The lawes of Nature, and thy lawes of State: I wretched am, and you vnfortunate. Declare what Storme is this? What Accident? Thy selfe-accusing doth excuse intent. Sir, odious is the fact on euery side: The remedie is more than you can beare; And more must fall vpon you than you feare. What threatning's this? what horror? what despite? Kings thoughts to Iealousie are ouer-tender. And any weaknesse many doth engender. Rossa! what meanes this venome of thy breath? Reuenge, and Iustice both require my death. Then tell. And lose the priuiledge of death. Then tell, and die. Nay tell, and liue a worthy death. Rippenot my wounds, deare Lord! silence is fit: My life hath shame, and death must couer it. What should be secret vnto thoughts that loue? All imperfections that offence do moue. What guiltinesse cannot Goodwill forgiue? These horrors which in stained soules doe liue. Are thy faults to thy selfe, or vnto me? To both alike. Remedilesse they be. Yet shew me trust: it proues your heart is pure, To me, and all crimes else Kings can endure. Imagine all the depths of wickednesse: My wombe as hell; my soule the world of sinne; Confusion in my thoughts, feare mercilesse; Without me Shame; Impenitence within. These words are not of charge, but intercession, As arguing not your Guilt, but your Oppression. Yet least I faile, and error multiply, Declare what's done? What moues this agonie? Thy Child is slaine. These hands imbrued are, Euen in her bowells, whom I nurs'd with care. So strange a death includes some odious crime. She did conspire. Silence deuoures the rest. Horror I apprehend, Danger, Despaire: All these lie hidden in this word, Conspire. This Wretch conspir'd the ruine of this State. Sir! aske no more: for Ills goe in a blood; You heare already more than doth you good.