Marston, John / Machin, Lewis / Barkstead, William · published 1613 · first performed or written 1607 [c.1607-1608; revised 1609-1613] (Annals) tragedy · Children of the Queen's Revels (?); Children of the King's Revels (?) · Whitefriars unassigned nearest T2 Roman politics: senate, consuls and civi · 504 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
signor Claridiana, I hope signor Rogero Thus employed me about a good office, 'Twere worthy Cicero's tongue, a famous Oration now? But friendship that is mutually embraced of the Gods, And is Ioues Usher to each sacred Synod, Without the which he could not reign in heaven, That overgoes my admiration shall not undergo my censure. These hot flames of rage, that else will be As fire midst your nuptial jollity, Burning the edge off from the present joy, And keep you wake to terror. I have not yet swallowed the Rhimatrix nor the onocentaur, the rhinoceros was monstrous. Sir, be you of the more flexible nature, and confess an error. I must, the Gods of love command, And that bright Star, her eye, that guides my fate. signor Rogero, joy then signor Rogero. signor, sir, O Devil. Good Husband show yourself a temperate man, Your mother was a woman I dare swear; No Tiger got you, nor no Bear was rival In your conception: you seem like the issue The painter's limb leaping from envies mouth, That devours all he meets. Had the last, or the least Syllable Of this more than immortal eloquence, Commenced to me when rage had been so high Within my blood, that it o'ertopped my soul, Like to the Lion when he hears the sound Of Dian's Bowstring in some shady wood, I should have couched my lowly limb on earth, And held my silence a proud sacrifice. Slave, I will fight with thee at any odds, Or name an instrument fit for destruction, That ne'er was made to make away a man, I'll meet thee on the ridges of the Alps, Or some inhospitable wilderness, Stark naked, at push-of-pike, or keen curtle-axe, At Turkish Sickle, Babylonian saw, The ancient Hooks of great Cadwalleder, Or any other heathen invention. O God bless the man. Counsel him good my Lord. Our tongues are weary, and he desperate, He does refuse to hear: What shall we do? I am not mad, I can hear, I can see, I can feel, But a wise rage in man, wrongs past compare, Should be well nourished as his virtues are: I'd have it known unto each valiant spirit. He wrongs no man that to himself does right. Catzo I ha'done, signor Rogero, I ha'done. By heaven this voluntary reconciliation made Freely, and of itself, argues unfeigned And virtuous knot of love. So sirs embrace. Sir, by the conscience of a Catholic man, And by our mother Church that binds And doth atone in amity with God, The souls of men, that they with men be one, I tread into the centre all the thoughts Of ill in me, toward you, and memory Of what from you might ought disparaged me, Wishing unfeignedly it may sink low, And as untimely births want power to grow. Christianly said: signor what would you have more? And so I swear, you're honest onocentaur. Nay see now, fie upon your turbulent spirit, Did he do't in this form?
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)
Signior Claridiana, I hope Signior Rogero Thus employed me about a good office, 'Twere worthy Cicerces tongue, a famous Oration now? But friendship that is mutually embraced of the Gods, And is Ioues Vsher to each sacred Sinod, Without the which hee could not raigne in heauen, That ouer-goes my admiration shall not vnder-goe my censure. These hot flames of rage, that else will be As fire midst your nuptiall Iolitie, Burning the edge off from the present Ioy, And keepe you wake to terror. I haue not yet swallowed the Rhimatrix nor the Onocentaure, the Rimocheros was monstrous. Sir, be you of the more flexible nature, and confesse an error. I must, the Gods of loue command, And that bright Starre, her eye, that guides my fate. Signior Rogero, ioy then Signior Rogero. Signior, sir, O Diuell. Good Husband shew your selfe a temp'rate man, Your mother was a woman I dare sweare; No Tyger got you, nor no Beare was riuall In your conception: you seeme like the issue The Painters limbe leaping from Enuies mouth, That deuoures all hee meetes. Had the last, or the least Syllable Of this more then immortall eloquence, Commenc'd to mee when rage had beene so high Within my bloud, that it ore-topt my soule, Like to the Lyon when he heares the sound Of Dian's Bowe-string in some shady wood, I should haue coucht my lowly limbe on earth, And held my silence a proud sacrifice. Slaue, I will fight with thee at any oddes, Or name an instrument fit for destruction, That ne'er was made to make away a man, Ile meete thee on the ridges of the Alpes, Or some inhospitable wildernesse, Starke naked, at push-of-pike, or keene Curt'laxe, At Turkish Sickle, Babilonian Sawe, The auncient Hookes of great Cadwalleder, Or any other heathen inuention. O God blesse the man. Counsell him good my Lord. Our tongues are weary, and he desperate, He does refuse to heare: What shall we doe? I am not mad, I can heare, I can see, I can feele, But a wise rage in man, wrongs past compare, Should be well nourisht as his vertues are: Ide haue it knowne vnto each valiant sp'rit. He wrongs no man that to himselfe does right. Catzo I ha'done, Signior Rogero, I ha'done. By heauen this voluntary reconsilation made Freely, and of it selfe, argues vnfaign'd And vertuous knot of loue. So sirs embrace. Sir, by the conscience of a Catholike man, And by our mother Church that bindes And doth attone in amitie with God, The soules of men, that they with men be one, I tread into the center all the thoughts Of ill in mee, toward you, and memory Of what from you might ought disparage mee, Wishing vnfaignedly it may sincke low, And as vntimely births want power to grow. Christianly said: Signior what would you haue more? And so I sweare, you're honest Onocentaure. Nay see now, fie vpon your turbulent spirit, Did he doo't in this forme?