The Atheist's Tragedy, or The Honest Man's Revenge · chunk 24 of 41
Tourneur, Cyril · published 1611 · first performed or written 1611 [1607-1611] (Annals) tragedy · Unknown unassigned nearest T5 Christian faith, sin and salvation · 482 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T5: god, christ, david, sin, holy, israel, lord, mercy, sins, faith.
I grant the Heaven. Thy goodness doth command Our punishments: but yet no further than The measure of our sins. How should they else Be just? Or how should that good purpose of Thy justice take effect, by bounding men Within the confines of humanity, When our afflictions do exceed our crimes? Then they do rather teach the barbarous world Examples that extend her cruelties Beyond their own dimensions; and instruct Our actions to be more, more barbarous. O my afflicted soul! How torment swells Thy apprehension with profane conceit, Against the sacred justice of my God? Our own constructions are the authors of Our misery. We never measure our Conditions but with Men above us in Estate. So while our Spirits labour to Be higher than our fortunes theyare more base. Since all those attributes which make men seem Superior to us; are Man's Subjects; and Were made to serve him. The repining Man Is of a servile spirit to deject The value of himself below their estimation. Here. Take my sword.— How now my wild swaggerer? you're tame enough now; are you not? The penury of a prison is like a soft consumption. 'twill humble the pride o' your mortality; and arm your soul in complete patience to endure the weight of affliction without feeling it. What? Hast no music in thee? Thou'st trebles and bases enough. Treble injury; and base usage. But trebles and bases make poor music without means. Thou want'st Means; Dost? what? Dost droop? art dejected? No Sir. I have a heart above the reach Of thy most violent maliciousness. A fortitude in scorn of thy contempt; (Since Fate is pleased to have me suffer it) That can bear more than thou hast power t'inflict. I was a Baron That thy Father has Deprived me off. In stead of that, I am Created King. I've lost a Signiory, That was confined within a piece of earth; A Wart upon the body of the world. But now I am an Emperor of a world. This little world of Man. My passions are My Subjects; and I can command them laugh; Whilst thou dost tickle'em to death with misery. 'tis bravely spoken; and I love thee for't. Thou liest here for a thousand crowns. Here are a thousand to redeem thee. Not for the ransom o'my life thou gav'st me. That I value not at one crown. 'tis none o'my deed. Thank my Father for't. 'tis his goodness. Yet he looks not for thanks. For he does it under hand; out of a reserved disposition to do thee good without ostentation.— Out o' great heart you'll refuse't now; will you? No. Since I must submit myself to Fate; I never will neglect the offer of one benefit; but entertain them as her favours; and th'inductions to some end of better fortune. As whose instrument; I thank thy courtesy.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I graunt the Heauen. Thy goodnesse doth command Our punishments: but yet no further then The measure of our sinnes. How should they else Be iust? Or how should that good purpose of Thy Iustice take effect, by bounding men Within the confines of humanitie, When our afflictions doe exceede our crimes? Then they doe rather teach the barb'rous world Examples that extend her cruelties Beyond their owne dimentions; and instruct Our actions to be more, more barbarous. O my afflicted soule! How torment swels Thy apprehension with prophane conceipt, Against the sacred iustice of my God? Our owne constructions are the authors of Our miserie. We neuer measure our Conditions but with Men aboue vs in Estate. So while our Spirits labour to Be higher then our fortunes th'are more base. Since all those attributes which make men seeme Superiour to vs; are Man's Subiects; and Were made to serue him. The repining Man Is of a seruile spirit to deiect The valew of himselfe below their estimation. Here. Take my sword.—How now my wilde Swag'rer? y'are tame enough now; are you not? The penurie of a prison is like a soft consumption. T'will humble the pride o' your mortalitie; and arme your soule in compleate patience to endure the waight of affliction without feeling it. What? Hast no musicke in thee? Th'hast trebles and bases enough. Treble iniurie; and base vsage. But trebles and bases make poore musick without meanes. Thou want'st Meanes; Doest? what? Doest droope? art deiected? No Sir. I haue a heart aboue the reach Of thy most violent maliciousnesse. A fortitude in scorne of thy contempt; (Since Fate is pleas'd to haue me suffer it) That can beare more then thou hast power t'inflict. I was a Baron That thy Father has Depriu'd me off. In stead of that, I am Created King. I'ue lost a Signiorie, That was confin'd within a piece of earth; A Wart vpon the body of the world. But now I am an Emp'rour of a world. This little world of Man. My passions are My Subiects; and I can command them laugh; Whilst thou doest tickle'em to death with miserie. T'is brauely spoken; and I loue thee for't. Thou liest here for a thousand crownes. Here are a thousand to redeeme thee. Not for the ransome o'my life thou gau'st mee. That I value not at one crowne. T'is none o'my deed. Thanke my Father for't. T'is his goodnesse. Yet hee lookes not for thankes. For he does it vnder hand; out of a reseru'd disposition to doe thee good without ostentation.—Out o' great heart you'l refus't now; will you? No. Since I must submit my selfe to Fate; I neuer will neglect the offer of one benefit; but entertaine them as her fauours; and th'inductions to some end of better fortune. As whose instrument; I thanke thy courtesie.