The White Devil (Vittoria Corombona) · chunk 25 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 · 523 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
dearly sir, I thank you, If any ask for me at Court, report You have left me in the company of knaves. I gather now by this, some cunning fellow That's my Lord's Officer, one that lately skipped From a clerks desk up to a justice chair, Hath made this knavish summons; and intends, As th'Irish rebels wont were to sell heads, So to make prize of these. And thus it happens, Your poor rogues pay for't, which have not the means To present bribe in fist: the rest o'th' band Are razed out of the knaves record; or else My Lord he winks at them with easy will, His man grows rich, the knaves are the knaves still. But to the use I'll make of it; it shall serve To point me out a list of murderers, Agents for any villainy. Did I want Ten leash of Courtesans, it would furnish me; Nay laundress three Armies. That so in little paper Should lie th'undoing of so many men! 'Tis not so big as twenty declarations. See the corrupted use some make of books: Divinity, wrested by some factious blood, Draws swords, swells battles, & o'erthrows all good. To fashion my revenge more seriously, Let me remember my dead sister's face: Call for her picture: no; I'll close mine eyes, And in a melancholic thought I'll frame Her figure 'fore me. Now I— hait how strong Imagination works! how she can frame Things which are not! methinks she stands afore me; And by the quick Idea of my mind, Were my skill pregnant, I could draw her picture. Thought, as a subtle juggler, makes us deem Things, supernatural, which have cause Common as sickness. 'Tis my melancholy, How cam'st thou by thy death?— how idle am I To question mine own idleness?— did ever Man dream awake till now?— remove this object Out of my brain with't: what have I to do With tombs, or deathbeds, funerals, or tears, That have to meditate upon revenge? So now 'tis ended, like an old wives story. Statesmen think often they see stranger sights Than madmen, Come, to this weighty business. My Tragedy must have some idle mirth in't, Else it will never pass. I am in love, In love with Corombona; and my suit Thus halts to her in verse.— I have done it rarely: o the fate of Princes! I am so used to frequent flattery, That being alone I now flatter myself; But it will serve, 'tis sealed; bear this To th'house of Convertites; and watch your leisure To give it to the hands of Corombona, Or to the Matron, when some followers Of Brachiano may be by. Away He that deals all by strength, his wit is shallow: When a man's head goes through each limb will follow. The engine for my business, bold Count Lodowick: 'Tis gold must such an instrument procure, With empty fist no man doth falcons lure. Brachiano, I am now fit for thy encounter. Like the wild Irish I'll near think thee dead, Till I can play at football with thy head. Flectere sinequeo Superes, Acheronta movebo.
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)
Deerely sir, I thanke you, If any aske for me at Court, report You haue left me in the company of knaues. I gather now by this, some cunning fellow That's my Lords Officer, one that lately skipt From a Clerkes deske vp to a Iustice chaire, Hath made this knauish summons; and intendes, As th'Irish rebels wont were to sell heads, So to make prize of these. And thus it happens, Your poore rogues pay for't, which haue not the meanes To present bribe in fist: the rest o'th'band Are raz'd out of the knaues record; or else My Lord he winkes at them with easy will, His man growes rich, the knaues are the knaues still. But to the vse I'le make of it; it shall serue To point me out a list of murderers, Agents for any villany. Did I want Ten leash of Curtisans, it would furnish me; Nay lawndresse three Armies. That so in little paper Should lye th'vndoing of so many men! 'Tis not so big as twenty declarations. See the corrupted vse some make of bookes: Diuinity, wrested by some factious bloud, Draws swords, swelsbattels, & orethrowes all good. To fashion my reuenge more seriously, Let me remember my dead sisters face: Call for her picture: no; I'le close mine eyes, And in a melancholicke thought I'le frame Her figure 'fore me. Now I—ha'te how strong Imagination workes! how she can frame Things which are not! me thinks she stands afore me▪ And by the quicke Idea of my minde, Were my skill pregnant, I could draw her picture. Thought, as a subtile Iugler, makes vs deeme Things, supernaturall, which haue cause Common as sickenesse. 'Tis my melancholy, How cam'st thou by thy death?—how idle am I To question mine owne idlenesse?—did euer Man dreame awake till now?—remoue this obiect Out of my braine with't: what haue I to do With tombes, or death-beds, funerals, or teares, That haue to meditate vpon reuenge? So now 'tis ended, like an old wiues story. States-men thinke often they see stranger sights Then mad-men, Come, to this waighty businesse. My Tragedy must haue some idle mirth in't, Else it will neuer passe. I am in loue, In loue with Corombona; and my suite Thus haltes to her in verse.— I haue done it rarely: ô the fate of Princes! I am so vs'd to frequent flattery, That being alone I now flatter my selfe; But it will serue, 'tis seal'd; beare this To th'house of Conuertites; and watch your leisure To giue it to the hands of Corombona, Or to the Matron, when some followers Of Brachiano may be by. Away He that deales all by strength, his wit is shallow: When a mans head goes through each limbe will follow. The engine for my busines, bold Count Lodowicke: 'Tis gold must such an instrument procure, With empty fist no man doth falcons lure. Brachiano, I am now fit for thy encounter. Like the wild Irish I'le nere thinke thee dead, Till I can play at footeball with thy head. Flectere sinequeo Superes, Achernta mouebo.