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 0.72 · 508 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Dost think I have no life? Seest not my blood in a continual pulse Beat through the azure conduits of my flesh? Feel how I burn: what star'st thou on me? Am I transparent? canst see from my heart Death in the shape of jealousy: stand Like a chief organ guiding all my frame, Unto some tragic action? O give my sense some freedom From fear and terror, that I may distinguish Betwixt the credulous rumour of your death, And what I see. I live, the time befits not inquisition Of tedious circumstance: Amada I live: But thou must die, and by thy mother's hand. O be not a Medea. Why like Creusa hast thou stolen my Jason? My Mulleasses he dotes upon thee: I am debarred his breast, Robbed of his love by thy alluring looks. Sad discontent wound in his folded arms, Sighs nought but Amada: but by my better hopes My blood shall like Medusa's first turn to serpents And taint thy flesh, ere it shall lose that fire Which makes it boil and burne in his desire. Deform my beauty fill my face with scars, Make me more loath some then a dead man's skull: Wash me with spider's blood, that I may swell, And be more ugly than a Gorgon's head, That he may fear to see me: only let me live, And spare me that that only you did give. My pleasure gave thee life, and it resumes That life again, because it kills my pleasure: thouart like an ivy nourished at the root Of some proud oak: that not content to creep And feed upon the sap, but stretching up, Proudly presum'st to overlook the top: So that the verdure of the ambitious imp, Detains all admiration: the Oak wants grace, Only because the ivy is in place. But I'll displant thee for no weed shall grow So near the root from whence my sap doth flow. Cruel unnatural: heaven my hopes in thee If virgin pureness please, accept of me. What, do you Christians sacrifice with flesh? Or like the Laodiceans unto Pallas, offer The blood of virgins? O inhuman deed, Ungentle monster, beauteous Amada! It was her beauty that I offered up Unto thy love my dearest Mulleasses. Worse than a camel in her time of lust, Cruel unto thy child: lose thy snaky arms O thou hast done As Lucius Catiline Rome's terror did for Orestilla, killed My child: no more: for Mulleasses love, I would outgo examples, and exceed As in desire, all others so indeed. And yet I love thy cruelty: for this night thou must Discard the timorous pity of thy Sex: Be a Semiramis: let thy husband's death Give thy hopes life: feed, feed upon his blood, And let thy veins swell: now he prepares to bed Be thine own ghost: and like the apparition Of his believed wife call for revenge: Incite his timorous conscience to despair, Speak of damnation: let one word contain A hell of torments. But time slides. I run.
nodes 1350–1418 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 25 of 35 in this edition
Length
508 words · 682 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.720 (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)
Dost thinke I haue no life? Sest not my blood in a continuall pulse Beat through the azure conduits of my flesh? Feele how I burne: what star't thou on me? Am I transparant? canst see from my heart Death in the shape of iealousie: stand Like a chiefe organ guiding all my frame, Vnto some tragicke action? O giue my sence some freedome From feare and terror, that I may distinguish Betwixt the credulous rumour of your death, And what I see. I liue, the time befits not inquisition Of tedious circumstance: Amada I liue: But thou must dye, and by thy mothers hand. O be not a Medea. Why like Creusa hast thou stolne my Iasen? My Mulleasses he dtes vpon thee: I am debard his breast, Robd of his loue by thy alluring lookes. Sad discontent wound in his folded armes, Sighs nought but Amada: but by my better hopes My blood shall like Medusas first turne to serpets And taint thy flesh, ere it shall loose that fire Which makes it boyle and burn in his desire. Deforme my beauty fill my face with scarres, Make me more loath some then a dead mans scull: Wash me with spiders blood, that I may swell, And be more vgly then a Gorgons head, That he may feare to see me: onely let me liue, And spare me that that onely you did giue. My pleasure gaue thee life, and it resumes That life againe, because it kils my pleasure: Th'art like an Iuy nourisht at the roote Of some proud oake: that not content to creepe And feede vpon the sap, but stretching vp, Proudly presumst to ouerlooke the top: So that the verdure of the ambitious impe, Detaines all admiration: the Oake wants grace, Onely because the Iuy is in place. But Ile displant thee for no weede shall grow So neere the roote fom whence my sap doth flow. Cruell vnnaturall: heauen my hopes in thee If virgin purenesse please, accept of me. What, do you Christians sacrifice with flesh? Or like the Laodiceans vnto Pallas, offer The blood of virgins? O inhumane deed, Vngentle monster, beauteous Amada! It was her beauty that I offerd vp Vnto thy loue my deerest Mulleasses. Worse then a Cammel in her time of lust, Cruell vnto thy childe: loose thy snaky armes O thou hast done As Lucius Catalline Romes terror did for Orestilla, kild My childe: no more: for Mulleasses loue, I would outgoe examples, and exceed As in desire, all others so indeed. And yet I loue thy cruelty: for this night thou must Discard the timorous pitty of thy Sexe: Be a Semiramis: let thy husbands death Giue thy hopes life: feed, feed vpon his blood, And let thy vaines swell: now he prepares to bed Be thine owne ghost: and like the apparition Of his beeeu'd-dead wife call for reuenge: Incite his timerous conscience to despaire, Speake of damnanion: let one word containe A hell of torments. But time slides. I runne.