The White Devil (Vittoria Corombona) · chunk 21 of 49
Webster, John · published 1612 · first performed or written 1612 [Winter 1612-1613] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Anne's Men T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.76 · 504 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Good, this is a preface to the discovery of the Duchess death: He carries it well: because now I cannot counterfeit a whining passion for the death of my Lady, I will feign a mad humour for the disgrace of my sister, and that will keep off idle questions, treason's tongue hath a villainous palsy in't, I will talk to any man, hear no man, and for a time appear a politic madman. How now my Noble cousin, what in black? Yes Uncle, I was taught to imitate you In virtue, and you must imitate me In colours for your garments, my sweet mother Is, How? Where? Is there, no yonder, indeed sir I'll not tell you, For I shall make you weep. Is dead. Do not blame me now, I did not tell you so. She's dead my Lord. Dead? Blessed Lady; Thou art now above thy woes, Wilit please your Lordships to withdraw a little. What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat, Hear music, go a hunting, and be merry, as we that live? No cose; they sleep. Lord, Lord, that I were dead, I have not slept these six nights. When do they wake? When God shall please. Good God let her sleep ever. For I have known her wake an hundredth nights, When all the pillow, where she laid her head, Was brine-wet with her tears. I am to complain to you Sir. I'll tell you how they have used her now she's dead: They wrapped her in a cruel fold of lead, And would not let me kiss her. Thou didst love her. I have often heard her say she gave me suck, And it should seem by that she dearly loved me, Since Princes seldom do it. O, all of my poor sister that remains! Take him away for God's sake. How now my Lord? Believe me I am nothing but her grave, And I shall keep her blessed memory, Longer than thousand Epitaphs. we endure the strokes like anvils or hard steel, Till pain itself make us no pain to feel. Who shall do me right now? Is this the end of service? I'd rather go weed garlic; travail through France, and be mine own ostler; wear sheepskin linings; or shoes that stink of blacking; be entered into the list of the forty thousand pedlars in Poland. Would I had rotted in some surgeon's house at Venice, built upon the Pox as well as on piles, ere I had served Brachiano. You must have comfort. Your comfortable words are like honey. They relish well in your mouth that's whole; but in mine that's wounded they go down as if the sting of the Bee were in them. Oh they have wrought their purpose cunningly, as if they would not seem to do it of malice. In this a Politician imitates the devil, as the devil imitates a Canon. Wheresoever he comes to do mischief, he comes with his backside towards you. The proofs are evident.
seed 43: T0 · seed 44: T0 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Good, this is a preface to the discouery of the Dutches death: Hee carries it well: because now I cannot counterfeit a whining passion for the death of my Lady, I will faine a madde humor for the disgrace of my sister, and that will keepe off idle questions, Treasons tongue hath a villanous palsy in't, I will talk to any man, heare no man, and for a time appeare a polliticke mad-man. How now my Noble cossin, what in blacke? Yes Vnckle, I was taught to imitate you In vertue, and you must imitate mee In couloures for your garments, my sweete mother Is, How? Where? Is there, no yonder, indeed sir I'le not tell you, For I shall make you weepe. Is dead. Do not blame me now, I did not tell you so. She's dead my Lord. Dead? Blessed Lady; Thou art now aboue thy woes, Wilt please your Lordships to with-draw a little. What do the dead do, vncle? do they eate, Heare musicke, goe a hunting, and bee merrie, as wee that liue? No cose; they sleepe. Lord, Lord, that I were dead, I haue not slept these sixe nights. When doe they wake? When God shall please. Good God let her sleepe euer. For I haue knowne her wake an hundreth nights, When all the pillow, where shee laid her head, Was brine-wet with her teares. I am to complaine to you Sir. Ile tell you how they haue vsed her now shees dead: They wrapt her in a cruell fould of lead, And would not let mee kisse her. Thou didst loue her. I haue often heard her say shee gaue mee sucke, And it should seeme by that shee deerely lou'd mee, Since Princes seldome doe it. O, all of my poore sister that remaines! Take him away for Gods sake. How now my Lord? Beleeue mee I am nothing but her graue, And I shall keepe her blessed memorie, Longer then thousand Epitaphs. Wee indure the strokes like anuiles or hard steele, Till paine it selfe make vs no paine to feele. Who shall doe mee right now? Is this the end of seruice? Ide rather go weede garlicke; trauaile through France, and be mine owne ostler; weare sheepe-skin lininges; or shoos that stinke of blacking; bee entred into the list of the fourtie thousand pedlars in Poland. Would I had rotted in some Surgeons house at Venice, built vpon the Pox as well as on piles, ere I had seru'd Brachiano. You must haue comfort. Your comfortable wordes are like honie. They rellish well in your mouth that's whole; but in mine that's wounded they go downe as if the sting of the Bee were in them. Oh they haue wrought their purpose cunningly, as if they would not seeme to doe it of malice. In this a Polititian imitates the deuill, as the deuill imitates a Canon. Wheresoeuer he comes to doe mischiefe, he comes with his backside towardes you. The proofes are euident.