The White Devil (Vittoria Corombona) · chunk 26 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 0.84 · 530 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Should it be known the Duke hath such recourse. To your imprisoned sister, I were like T'incur much damage by it. Not a scruple. The Pope lies on his deathbed, and their heads Are troubled now with other business Than guarding of a Lady. Yonder's Flamineo in conference With the Matrona. Let me speak with you. I would entreat you to deliver for me This letter to the fair Vittoria. I shall Sir. With all care and secrecy, Hereafter you shall know me, and receive Thanks for this courtesy. How now? what's that? A letter. To my sister: I'll see't delivered. What's that you read Flamineo? Look. Ha? To the most unfortunate his best respected Vittoria. Who was the messenger? I know not. No! Who sent it? ud's foot you speak, as if a man Should know what foul is coffined in a baked meat Afore you cut it up. I'll open't, were't her heart. What's here subscribed This juggling is gross and palpable. (Florence? I have found out the conveyance; read it, read, it. Your tears I'll turn to triumphs, be but mine. Your prop is fallen; I pity that a vine Which Princes heretofore have longed to gather, Wanting supporters, now should fade and wither. Wine i'faith, my Lord, with lees would serve his turn. Your sad imprisonment I'll soon uncharm, And with a princely uncontrolled arm Lead you to Florence, where my love and care Shall hang your wishes in my silver hair. A halter on his strange equivocation. Nor for my years return me the sad willow, Who prefer blossoms before fruit that's mellow. Rotten on my knowledge with lying too long i'th' bedstraw. And all the lines of age this line convinces: The Gods never wax old, no more do Princes. Apox on't tear it, let's have no more Atheists for God's sake. Uds'death, I'll cut her into Atomies And let th'irregular north-wind sweep her up And blow her int' his nostrils. Where's this whore? That? what do you call her? Oh, I could be mad, Prevent the cursed disease she'll bring me to; And tear my hair off. Where's this changeable stuff? o'er head and ears in water, I assure you, She is not for your wearing. In you Pandar? What me, my Lord, am I your dog? A bloodhound: do you brave? do you stand me? Stand you? let those that have diseases run; I need no plasters. Would you be kicked? Would you have your neck broke? I tell you Duke, I am not in Russia; My shins must be kept whole. Do you know me? O my Lord! methodically. As in this world there are degrees of evils: So in this world there are degrees of devils. You're a great Duke; I your poor secretary. I do look now for a Spanish fig, or an Italian salad daily. Pandar, ply your convoy, and leave your prating. All your kindness to me is like that miserable courtesy of Polyphemus to Ulysses, you reserve me to be devoured last, you would dig turues out of my grave to feed your Larks: that would be music to you. Come, I'll lead you to her.
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)
Should it be knowne the Duke hath such recourse. To your imprison'd sister, I were like T'incur much damage by it. Not a scruple. The Pope lies on his death-bed, and their heads Are troubled now with other businesse Than guarding of a Ladie. Yonder's Flamineo in conference With the Matrona. Let mee speake with you. I would intreat you to deliuer for mee This letter to the faire Uittoria. I shall Sir. With all care and secrecie, Hereafter you shall know mee, and receiue Thankes for this curtesie. How now? what's that? A letter. To my sister: Ile see't deliuered. What's that you read Flamineo? Looke. Ha? To the most vnfortunate his best respected Uittoria. Who was the messenger? I know not. No! Who sent it? Vd's foot you speake, as if a man Should know what foule is coffind in a bak't meate Afore you cut it vp. Ile open't, were't her heart. What's heere subscribed This iugling is grosse and palpable. (Florence? I haue found out the conueyance; read it, read, it. Your teares Ile turne to triumphes, bee but mine. Your propis fall'n; I pittie that a vine Which Princes heretofore haue long'd to gather, Wanting suppperters, now should fade and wither. Wine yfaith, my Lord, with lees would serue his turne. Your sadimprisonement lle soone vncharme, And with a princelie vncontrolled arme Lead you to Florence, where my loue and care Shall hang your wishes in my siluer haire. A halter on his strange aequiuocation. Nor for y yeares returne mee the sad willow, Who prefer blossomes before fruit that's mellow. Rotten on my knowledge with lying too long i'th bed-straw. And all the lines of age this line conuinces: The Gods neuer wax old, no more doe Princes. Apox on't teare it, let's haue no more Atheists for Gods sake. Vdsdeath, Ile cut her into Atomies And let th'irregular North-winde sweepe her vp And blow her int' his nosthrils. Where's this whore? That? what doe you call her? Oh, I could bee mad, Preuent the curst disease shee'l bring mee to; And teare my haire off. Where's this changeable stuffe? Ore head and eares in water, I assure you, Shee is not for your wearing. In you Pandar? What mee, my Lord, am I your dog? A bloud-hound: doe you braue? doe you stand mee? Stand you? let those that haue diseases run; I need no plaisters. Would you bee kickt? Would you haue your necke broke? I tell you Duke, I am not in Russia; My shinnes must be kept whole. Do you know mee? O my Lord! methodically. As in this world there are degrees of euils: So in this world there are degrees of deuils. You'r a great Duke; I your poore secretarie. I doe looke now for a Spanish fig, or an Italian sallet daily. Pandar, plie your conuoy, and leaue your prating. All your kindnesse to mee is like that miserable curtesie of Polyphemus to Ulisses, you reserue mee to be deuour'd last, you would dig turues out of my graue to feed your Larkes: that would bee musicke to you. Come, Ile lead you to her.