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 T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.74 · 467 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
And this the crown of all my Actions, To purge the earth, of such a man turned monster. I never wronged thee Spaniard, did I? speak I'll make thee satisfaction like a soldier, A true Italian, and a Gentleman: Thy rage is treachery without a cause. My rage is just, and thy heart blood shall know, He that wrongs beauty, must be honours foe: Isabel's quarrel, arms the Spaniards spirit. Murder should keep with baseness, not with merit: I'll answer thee tomorrow by my soul, And clear thy doubts, or satisfy thy will. he's wars best scholar, can with safety kill. Take this tonight, now meet with me tomorrow, I come Isabella, halfe thy hate is dead, Valour makes murder light, which fear makes dead. The pistol was shot here seize him, Bring lights, what Don Sago Colonel of the horse? Ring the Alarum bell, raise the whole City, His Troops are in the town, I fear treachery: whose's this lies murdered, speak blood-thirsty Spaniard. I have not spoiled his face, you may know his visnomy. 'Tis Count Rogero, go convey him hence. Thy life proud Spaniard, answers this offence, A strong guard for the prisoner, less the cities powers Rise to rescue him. What needs this strife? Know slaves, I prize revenge above my life. Fame's register to future times shall tell That by Don Sago, Count Rogero fell. DONE Sago quakest thou not to behold this spectacle, This innocent sacrifice murdered nobleness, When blood the maker ever promiseth, Shall though with slow yet with sure vengeance rest. 'tis a guerdon earned, and must be paid, As sure revenge, as it is sure a deed: I ne'er knew murder yet, but it did bleed. Canst thou after so many fearful conflicts, Between this object, and thy guilty conscience, Now thou art freed from out the serpent's jaws, That wild adulteress, whose sorceries Doth draw chaste men into incontinence: Whose tongue flows over with harmful eloquence. Canst thou I say repent this heinous Act, And learn to loath, that killing Cockatrice? By this fresh blood, that from thy manly breast, I cowardly sluct out, I would in hell, From this sad minute, still the day of doom: To reinspire vain Aesculapius. And fill these crimson conduits, feel the fire Due to the damned, and this horrid fact Upon my soul, brave Spaniard, I believe thee. O cease to weep in blood, or teach me too, The bubbling wounds, do murmur for revenge: This is the end of lust, where men may see, Murders the shadow of Adultery: And follows it to death. But hopeful Lord, we do commiserate, Thy bewitched fortunes▪ a free pardon give: On this thy true and noble penitence. With all we make thee Colonel of our horse; Levied against the proud venetian state.
Marston, John / Machin, Lewis / Barkstead, William
Publication year (edition)
1613
First performance / composition (Annals)
1607 [c.1607-1608; revised 1609-1613]
First performance (BritDrama)
1610 [1608-1613]
Company (BritDrama)
Children of the Queen's Revels (?); Children of the King's Revels (?)
Theater
Whitefriars;Indoor Professional
Genre (British Drama)
tragedy
Play type
Boys Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 721 · TCP A07067 · DEEP 599
Edition role
Representative edition — used in the analysis
Position
nodes 1737–1798 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 33 of 40 in this edition
Length
467 words · 652 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.742 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
And this the crowne of all my Actions, To purge the earth, of such a man turn'd monster. I neuer wrong'd thee Spaniard, did I? speake I'le make thee satisfaction like a souldiour, A true Italian, and a Gentleman: Thy rage is treacherie without a cause. My rage is iust, and thy heart bloud shall know, He that wrongs beautie, must be honors foe: Isabels quarrell, armes the Spaniards spirit. Murder should keepe with basenesse, not with merit: I'le answere thee to morrow by my soule, And cleare thy doubts, or satisfie thy will. Hee's warres best scholler, can with safety kill. Take this to night, now meete with me to morrow, I come Isabella, halfe thy hate is dead, Valour makes murder light, which feare makes dead. The pistoll was shot here seize him, Bring lights, what Don Sago Collonell of the horse? Ring the Alarum bell, raise the whole Citie, His Troops are in the towne, I feare treacherie: Whose this lies murdred, speake bloud-thirstie Spaniard. I haue not spoil'd his face, you may know his visnomy. 'Tis Count Rogero, goe conuay him hence. Thy life proud Spaniard, answeres this offence, A strong guard for the prisoner, lesse the cities powers Rise to rescue him. What needs this strife? Know slaues, I prize reuenge aboue my life. Fames register to future times shall tell That by Don Sago, Count Rogero fell. DOn Sago quak'st thou not to behold this spectacle, This innocent sacrifice murdred noblenes, When bloud the maker euer promiseth, Shall though with slow yet with sure vengeance rest. I'tis a guerdon earn'd, and must be paide, As sure reuenge, as it is sure a deede: I nee'r knew murder yet, but it did bleed. Canst thou after so many fearefull conflicts, Betweene this obiect, and thy guilty conscience, Now thou art freed from out the serpents Iawes, That vilde Adultresse, whose sorceries Doth draw chaste men into incontinence: Whose tongue flowes ouer with harmefull eloquence. Canst thou I say repent this hainous Act, And learne to loath, that killing Cockatrice? By this fresh blood, that from thy manly brest, I cowardly sluct out, I would in hell, From this sad minute, still the day of doome: To re-inspire vaine Aesculapius. And fill these crimson conduits, feele the fire Due to the damned, and this horrid fact Vpon my soule, braue Spaniard, I beleeue thee. O cease to weepe in blood, or teach me too, The bubbling wounds, doe murmure for reuenge: This is the end of lust, where men may see, Murders the shadow of Adulterie: And followes it to death. But hopefull Lord, we doe commiserate, Thy bewitch't fortunes▪ a free pardon giue: On this thy true and noble penitence. With all we make thee Collonell of our horse; Leuied against the proud Venecian state.