Mason, John · published 1610 · first performed or written 1607 [1607-1608] (Annals) tragedy · Children of the King's Revels T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.74 · 526 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Nor give we expectation of proud pomp, Of shows, or Pageants, for your entertainment: Our bells ring forth our sorrows in sad peals, No pleasant changes to give Princes welcome, Our Churches stand not garnished with pictures, To please devoted superstition with, But mourn in black. Our Church men Leave their chanting Anthems, & their daily Mass, To sing continual requiems to her soul. Sorrow sits sad and weeping in our streets, All eyes are wet with tears, save those where grief Hath dried all moisture up. Our sucking infants Are pale and lean with hanging on the breasts, Of grief-spent mothers: If these may welcome you, we'll give you prodigal welcome to our City. Such welcome fits the death of Iulia. So should all mourn and weep for Iulia. So do we mourn and weep for Iulia. Lead on unto the City: how slow paced is sorrow? Grief is a Tortoise to the nimble sense, And chills their motions, the officers of love, Live at our funeral, and in death do move. Eunuchus? Madam. What solemnity is that the City celebrates? The Dukes of Venice and Ferrara, Are with your father entered the walls Unto the funerals of Iulia. Why, is Iulia dead? I hope your Ladyship— I cry thee mercy: the remembrance of her Makes me still think she lives. And that's the cause they parleyed on the walls. True Madam. Remove a while. At your service Lady. Iulia given out for dead, And live in durance at my father's will? 'tis strange: the Duke's invited to her funeral. More mists of policy? O simplicity! The clue of reason cannot guide the fate, Of this daedalian maze: were't not profane In me to question nature for my birth, And quarrel with my stars for being daughter To him whom I suspect to be a villain: Some inspiration of religious thoughts, Make nature less in me, and bear my duty Even with his awe whose uncontrolled command, Frees our obedience from our impious parents. My father Borgias left in charge with me, That I should keep fair Iulia: I am her jailor, To whom, both he and I do owe allegiance. Distracted duty, how should I bestow thee? On the right owner, justice I adore thee. Amada. My love and duty. Alone? My mother's Eunuch: How fares Iulia? Lives as you commanded, unseen & private. Thy mother's dead. Defend it heavens! Dead: no more: Eunuchus? My love and service. You gave it out last night as I commanded Timoclea my wife was sick. I did and't like your grace. When sets the Sun? Some six hours hence. tonight willbe to soon: tomorrow morning Rumour't about the City, my wife is dead, Say abroad she is dead. It shall be done. So shall thy duty keep me bound to thee. Amada: some thing more I have to say, Prepare for marriage. For marriage? Question me not, thou must be married, Mulleasses is thy husband, my word hath sealed it. Be still my Argus, and keep Iulia. Death to my soul! Eunuchus Canst thou unknown (to any save thyself) Poison a groom to stuff a coffin with?
nodes 282–364 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 5 of 35 in this edition
Length
526 words · 719 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.737 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Nor giue we expectation of proud pompe, Of shewes, or Pageants, for your entertainment: Our bels ring forth our sorrowes in sad peales, No pleasant changes to giue Princes welcome, Our Churches stand not garnished with pictures, To please deuoted superstition with, But mourne in blacke. Our Church men Leaue their chaunting Antheams, & their daily Masse, To sing continuall requiems to her soule. Sorrow sits sad and weeping in our streetes, All eies are wet with teares, saue those where griefe Hath dryed all moysture vp. Our sucking infants Are pale and leane with hangng on the breasts, Of griefe-spent mothers: If these may welcome you, We'le giue you prodigall welcome to our Citty. Such welcome fits the death of Iulia. So should all mourne and weepe for Iulia. So doe we mourne and weepe for Iulia. Lead on vnto the Citty: how slowe pac'd is sorrow? Griefe is a Tortoyse to the nimble sence, And chils their motions, the officers of loue, Liue at our funerall, and in death do moue. Eunuchu? Madam. What solemnity is that the Citty celebrates? The Dukes of Venice and Ferrara, Are with your father entred the wals Vnto the funerals of Iulia. Why, is Iulia dead? I hope your Ladiship— I cry thee mercy: the remembrance of her Makes me still thinke she liues. And thats the cause they parleyed on the wals. True Madam. Remoue a while. At your seruice Lady. Iulia giuen out for dead, And liue in durance at my fathers will? Tis strange: the Dukes inuited to her funerall. More mists of pollicy? O simplicity! The clue of reason cannot guid the fate, Of this Dedalion maze: wer't not prophane In me to question nature for my birth, And quarrell with my starres for being daughter To him whome I suspect to be a villaine: Some inspiration of religious thoughts, Make nature lesse in me, and beare my duty Euen with his awe whose vncontrould commaund, Frees our obedience from our impious parents. My father Borgias left in charge with me, That I should keepe faire Iulia: I am her Iaylor, To whome, both he and I do owe alleagiance. Distracted duy, how should I bestow thee? On the right owner, Iustice I adore thee. Amada. My loue and duty. Alone? My mothers Eunuch How fares Iulia? Liues as you cōmanded, vnseene & priuate. Thy mothers dead. Defend it heauens Dead: no more: Eunuchus? My loue and seruice. You gaue it out last night as I commaunded Timoclea my wife was sicke. I did and't like your grace. When sets the Sunne? Some six houres hence. To night wilbe to soone: to morrow morning Rumour't about the Citty, my wife is dead, Say abroad she is dead. It shall be done. So shall thy duty keepe me bound to thee. Amada: some thing more I haue to say, Prepare for marriage. For marriage? Question me not, thou must be married, Mulleasses is thy husband, my word hath seald it. Be still my Argus, and keepe Iulia. Death to my soule! Eunucus Canst thou vnknowne (to any saue thy selfe) Poyson a groome to stuffe a coffen with?