The White Devil (Vittoria Corombona) · chunk 40 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 0.78 · 487 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Si nùnc quoque probas ea quae acta sunt inter nos, flecte caput in lewm. He is departing: pray stand all apart, And let us only whisper in his ears Some private meditations, which our order Permits you not to hear. Brachiano. Devil Brachiano. Thou art damned. Perpetually. A slave condemned, and given up to the gallows Is thy great Lord and Master. True: for thou Art given up to the devil. O you slave! You that were held the famous Politician; Whose art was poison. And whose conscience murder. That would have broke your wives neck down the stairs ere she was poisoned. That had your villainous And fine embroidered bottles, (salads And perfumes Equally mortal with a winter plague Now there's Mercury. And copperas And quicksilver. With other devilish pothecary stuff A melting in your politic brains: dost hear. This is Count Lodovico. This Gasparo. And thou shalt die like a poor rogue. And stink Like a dead fly-blown dog. And be forgotten before thy funeral sermon. Vittoria? Vittoria! O the cursed devil, Come to himself a gain. we are undone. (again Strangle him in private. What? will you call him To live in treble torments? for charity, For Christian charity, avoid the chamber. You would prate, Sir. This is a true-Love knot Sent from the Duke of Florence. What is it done? The snuffe is out. No woman-keeper i'ch world, Though she had practised seven year at the Pest-house, Could have done't quaintlier. My Lords he's dead. Rest to his soul. O me! this place is hell. How heavily she takes it. O yes, yes; Had women navigable rivers in their eyes They would dispend them all; surely I wonder Why we should wish more rivers to the City, When they sell water so good cheap. I'll tell thee, These are but Moonish shades of griefs or fears, There's nothing sooner dry than womens-tears. Why here's an end of all my harvest, he has given me nothing Court promises! Let wisemen count them cursed For while you live he that scores best pays worst. Sure, this was Florence doing. Very likely. Those are found weighty strokes which come from th'hand, But those are killing strokes which come from th'head. O the rare tricks of a Machiavellian! He doth not come like a gross plodding slave And buffet you to death: No, my quaint knave, He tickles you to death; makes you die laughing; As if you had swallowed down a pound of saffron You see the seat, 'tis practised in a trice To teach Court-honesty, it jumps on Ice. Now have the people liberty to talk And descant on his vices. Misery of Princes, That must of force be censured by their slaves! Not only blamed for doing things are ill, But for not doing all that all men will. One were better be a thresher. Uds'death, I would fain speak with this Duke yet.
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)
Si nùnc quoque probas ea quae acta sunt inter nos, flecte caput in leuum. Hee is departing: pray stand all apart, And let vs onely whisper in his eares Some priuate meditations, which our order Permits you not to heare. Brachiano. Deuill Brachiano. Thou art damn'd. Perpetually. A slaue condemn'd, and giuen vp to the gallowes Is thy great Lord and Master. True: for thou Art giuen vp to the deuill. O you slaue! You that were held the famous Pollititian; Whose art was poison. And whose conscience murder. That would haue broke your wiues necke downe the staires ere she was poison'd. That had your villanous And fine imbrodered bottles, (sallets And perfumes Equally mortall with a winter plague Now there's Mercarie. And copperesse And quicke-siluer. With other deuelish potticarie stuffe A melting in your polliticke braines: do'st heare. This is Count Lodouico. This Gasparo. And thou shalt die like a poore rogue. And stinke Like a dead flie-blowne dog. And be forgotten before thy sunerall sermon. Uittoria? Uittoria! O the cursed deuill, Come to himselfe a gaine. Wee are vndone. (againe Strangle him in priuate. What? will you call him To liue in treble torments? for charitie, For Christian charitie, auoid the chamber. You would prate, Sir. This is a true-loue knot Sent from the Duke of Florence. What is it done? The snuffe is out. No woman-keeper i'ch world, Though shee had practis'd seuen yere at the Pest-house, Could haue done't quaintlyer. My Lordes hee's dead. Rest to his soule. O mee! this place is hell. How heauily shee takes it. O yes, yes; Had women nauigable riuers in their eies They would dispend them all; surely I wonder Why wee should wish more riuers to the Cittie, When they sell water so good cheape. Ile tell thee, These are but Moonish shades of greifes or feares, There's nothing sooner drie than womens-teares. Why heere's an end of all my haruest, hee has giuen mee nothing Court promises! Let wisemen count them curst For while you liue hee that scores best paies worst. Sure, this was Florence doing. Very likelie. Those are found waightie strokes which come from th'hand, But those are killing strokes which come from th'head. O the rare trickes of a Machiuillian! Hee doth not come like a grosse plodding slaue And buffet you to death: No, my quaint knaue, Hee tickles you to death; makes you die laughing; As if you had swallow'd downe a pound of saffron You see the seat, 'tis practis'd in a trice To teach Court-honestie, it iumpes on Ice. Now haue the people libertie to talke And descant on his vices. Miserie of Princes, That must of force bee censur'd by their slaues! Not onely blam'd for doing things are ill, But for not doing all that all men will. One were better be a thresher. Vds'death, I would faine speake with this Duke yet.