The White Devil (Vittoria Corombona) · chunk 27 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 0.90 · 491 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Do you face me? O Sir I would not go before a Politic enemy with my back towards him, though there were behind me a whirlpool. Can you read Mistress? look upon that letter; There are no characters nor Hieroglyphics. You need no comment, I am grown your receiver, God's precious you shall be a brave great Lady, A stately and advanced whore. Say Sir. Come, come, let's see your Cabinet, discover Your treasury of love-letters. Death and furies, I'll see them all. Sir, upon my soul, I have not any. Whence was this directed? Confusion on your politic ignorance. You are reclaimed; are you? I'll give you the bells And let you fly to the devil. Ware hawk, my Lord. Florence! This is some treacherous plot, my Lord, To me, he near was lovely I protest, So much as in my sleep. Right: they are plots. Your beauty! o, ten thousand curses on't. How long have I beheld the devil in crystal? Thou hast led me, like an heathen sacrifice, With music, and with fatal! yokes of flowers To my eternal ruin. Woman to man Is either a God or a wolf. My Lord. Away. we'll be as differing as two Adamants; The one shall shun the other. What? dost weep? Procure but ten of thy dissembling trade, ye'd furnish all the Irish funerals With howling, past wild Irish. Fie, my Lord. That hand, that cursed hand, which I have wearied With doting kisses! O my sweetest Duchess How lovely art thou now! Thy loose thoughts Scatter like quicksilver, I was bewitched; For all the world speaks ill of thee. No matter. I'll live so now I'll make that world recant And change her speeches. You did name your Duchess. Whose death God pardon. Whose death God revenge On thee most godless Duke. Now for tow whirl winds. What have I gained by thee but infamy? Thou hast stained the spotless honour of my house, And frighted thence noble society: Like those, which sick o'th' Palsy, and retain ill-scenting foxes 'bout them, are still shunned By those of choicer nostrils. What do you call this house? Is this your palace? did not the judge style it A house of penitent whores? who sent me to it? Who hath the honour to advance Vittoria To this incontinent college? is 't not you? Is 't not your high preferment? Go, go brag How many Ladies you have undone, like me. Fare you well Sir; let me hear no more of you. I had a limb corrupted to an ulcer, But I have cut it off: and now I'll go Weeping to heaven on crutches. For your gifts, I will return them all; and I do wish That I could make you full Executor To all my sins, ò that I could toss myself Into a grave as quickly: for all thou art worth I'll not shed one tear more;— I'll burst first.
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)
Do you face mee? O Sir I would not go before a Pollitique enemie with my backe towards him, though there were behind mee a whirlepoole. Can you read Mistresse? looke vpon that letter; There are no characters nor Hieroglyphicks. You need no comment, I am growne your receiuer, Gods pretious you shall bee a braue great Ladie, A statelie and aduanced whore. Say Sir. Come, come, let's see your Cabinet, discouer Your treasurie of loue-letters. Death and furies, Ile see them all. Sir, vpon my soule, I haue not any. Whence was this directed? Confusion on your politicke ignorance. You are reclaimed; are you? Ile giue you the bels And let you flie to the deuill. Ware hawke, my Lord. Florence! This is some treacherous plot, my Lord, To mee, he nere was louely I protest, So much as in my sleepe. Right: they are plots. Your beautie! ô, ten thousand curses on't. How long haue I beheld the deuill in christall? Thou hast lead mee, like an heathen sacrifice, With musicke, and with fatal! yokes of flowers To my eternall ruine. Woman to man Is either a God or a wolfe. My Lord. Away. Wee'l bee as differing as two Adamants; The one shall shunne the other. What? do'st weepe? Procure but ten of thy dissembling trade, Yee'ld furnish all the Irish funeralls With howling, past wild Irish. Fie, my Lord. That hand, that cursed hand, which I haue wearied With doting kisses! O my sweetest Dutchesse How louelie art thou now! Thy loose thoughtes Scatter like quicke-siluer, I was bewitch'd; For all the world speakes ill of thee. No matter. Ile liue so now Ile make that world recant And change her speeches. You did name your Dutchesse. Whose death God pardon. Whose death God reuenge On thee most godlesse Duke. Now for tow whirle windes. What haue I gain'd by thee but infamie? Thou hast stain'd the spotlesse honour of my house, And frighted thence noble societie: Like those, which sicke' oth' Palsie, and retaine Ill-senting foxes 'bout them, are still shun'd By those of choicer nosthrills. What doe you call this house? Is this your palace? did not the Iudge stile it A house of penitent whores? who sent mee to it? Who hath the honour to aduance Uittoria To this incontinent colledge? is 't not you? Is 't not your high preferment? Go, go brag How many Ladies you haue vndone, like mee. Fare you well Sir; let me heare no more ofy ou. I had a limbe corrupted to an vlcer, But I haue cut it off: and now Ile go Weeping to heauen on crutches. For your giftes, I will returne them all; and I do wish That I could make you full Executor To all my sinnes, ò that I could tosse my selfe Into a graue as quickly: for all thou art worth Ile not shed one teare more;—Ile burst first.