The White Devil (Vittoria Corombona) · chunk 18 of 49
Webster, John · published 1612 · first performed or written 1612 [Winter 1612-1613] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Anne's Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 502 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
An active plot He jumped into his grave. what a prodigy was't, That from some two yards height a slender man (more, Should break his neck? Ith' rushes. And what's. Upon the instant lose all use of speech, All vital motion, like a man had lain Wound up three days. Now mark each circumstance. And look upon this creature was his wife. she comes not like a widow: she comes armed With scorn and impudence: Is this a mourning habit. Had I foreknown his death as you suggest, I would have bespoke my mourning. O you are cunning. You shame your wit and judgement To call it so; What is my just defence By him that is my judge called impudence? Let me appeal then from this Christian Court To the uncivil Tartar. See my Lords. she scandals our proceedings. Humbly thus. Thus low, to the most worthy and respected leaguer Ambassadors, my modesty And womanhood I tender; but withal So entangled in a cursed accusation That my defence of force like Perseus. Must personate masculine virtue to the point. Find me but guilty, sever head from body: we'll part good friends: I scorn to hold my life. at yours or any man's entreaty, Sir, She hath a brave spirit Well, well, such counterfeit jewels Make true on's oft suspected. You are deceived. For know that all your strict combined heads, Which strike against this mine of diamonds, Shall prove but glassen hammers, they shall break, These are but feigned shadows of my evils. Terrify babes, my Lord, with painted devils, I am past such needless palsy, for your names, Of Whore and murderess they proceed from you, As if a man should spit against the wind, The filth returns in's face. Pray you Mistress satisfy me one question: Who lodged beneath your roof that fatal night Your husband broke his neck? That question Enforceth me break silence, I was there. Your business? Why I came to comfort her, And take some course for settling her estate, Because I heard her husband was in debt To you my Lord. He was. And 'twas strangely feared, That you would cozen her. Who made you overseer? Why my charity, my charity, which should flow From every generous and noble spirit, To orphans and to widows. Your lust. Cowardly dogs bark loudest. Sirrah Priest, I'll talk with you hereafter,— Do you hear? The sword you frame of such an excellent temper, I'll sheath in your own bowels: There are a number of thy coat resemble Your common postboys. Ha? Your mercenary postboys, Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise To fill your mouth's with gross and impudent lies. My Lord your gown. Thou liest 'twas my stool. Bestow't upon thy master that will challenge The rest a'th' householdstuff for Brachiano Was near so beggarly, to take a stool Out of another's lodging: let him make Valence for his bed on't, or a demi foot-cloth, For his most reverent moil, Monticelso, Nemo me Impune lacescit.
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)
An actiue plot Hee iumpt into his graue. what a prodigy wast, That from some two yardes height a slender man (more, Should breake his necke? Ith' rushes. And what's. Vpon the instant loose all vse of speach, All vitall motion, like a man had laine Wound vp three dayes. Now marke each circumstance. And looke vpon this creature was his wife. Shee comes not like a widow: shee comes arm'd With scorne and impudence: Is this a mourning habit. Had I forknowne his death as you suggest, I would haue bespoke my mourning. O you are conning. You shame your wit and Iudgement To call it so; What is my iust defence By him that is my Iudge cal'd impudence? Let mee appeale then from this Christian Court To the vnciuill Tartar. See my Lords. Shee scandals our proceedings. Humbly thus. Thus low, to the most worthy and respected Leigier Embassadors, my modesty And womanhood I tender; but withall So intangled in a cursed accusation That my defence of force like Perseus. Must personate masculine vertue to the point. Find mee but guilty, seuer head from body: Weele part good frindes: I scorne to hould my life. at yours or any mans intreaty, Sir, Shee hath a braue spirit Well, well, such counterfet Iewels Make trew on's oft suspected. You are deceaued. For know that all your strickt combined heads, Which strike against this mine of diamondes, Shall proue but glassen hammers, they shall breake, These are but faigned shadowes of my euels. Terrify babes, my Lord, with painted deuils, I am past such needlesse palsy, for your names, Of Whoore and Murdresse they proceed from you, As if a man should spit against the wind, The filth returne's in's face. Pray you Mistresse satisfy me one question: Who lodg'd beneath your roofe that fatall night Your husband brake his necke? That question Inforceth me breake silence, I was there. Your businesse? Why I came to comfort her, And take some course for setling her estate, Because I heard her husband was in debt To you my Lord. He was. And 'twas strangely fear'd, That you would cosen her. Who made you ouer-seer? Why my charity, my charity, which should flow From euery generous and noble spirit, To orphans and to widdows. Your lust. Cowardly dogs barke loudest. Sirrah Priest, Ile talke with you hereafter,—Do you heare? The sword you frame of such an excellent temper, I'le sheath in your owne bowels: There are a number of thy coate resemble Your common post-boyes. Ha? Your mercinary post-boyes, Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise To fill your mouth's with grosse and impudent lies. My Lord your gowne. Thou liest 'twas my stoole. Bestow't vpon thy maister that will challenge The rest a'th houshold-stuffe for Brachiano Was nere so beggarly, to take a stoole Out of anothers lodging: let him make Valence for his bed on't, or a demy foote-cloth, For his most reuerent moile, Monticelso, Nemo me Impune lacescit.