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 T1 Death, grief and revenge · 507 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Medina, I thank thee not, give life to him, That sits with Risus, and the full cheeked Bacchus, The rich and mighty Monarchs of the earth, To me life is ten times more terrible, Then death can be to me, O break my breast: Divines and dying men may talk of hell, But in my heart the several torments dwell. What Tanais, Nilus? or what Tioris swift? What Rhenus ferier then the Cataract? Although Neptolis cold, the waves of all the northern sea, Should flow for ever, through these guilty hands, Yet the sanguinolent stain would extant be. God pardon thee, we do. The Countess comes my Lord, unto the death: But so unwillingly, and unprepared, That she is rather forced, thinking the sum She sent to you of twenty thousand pound, Would have assured her of life. O Heavens! Is she not weary yet of lust and life? Had it been Croesus' wealth, she should have died; Her goods by law, are all confiscate to us, And die she shall: her lust Would make a slaughter house of Italy. Ere she attained to four and twenty years, Three Earls, one Viscount, and this valiant Spaniard, Are known to abeene the fuel to her lust: Besides her secret lovers, which charitably I judge to have been but few, but some they were. Here is a glass, wherein to view her soul, A Noble, but unfortunate Gentleman, Cropped by her hand, as some rude passenger Doth pluck the tender Roses in the bud, Murder and lust, the least of which is death, And hath she yet any false hope of breath? What place is this? madam, the Castle green. There should be dancing on a green I think. madam: to you none other than your dance of death. Good my Lord Cardinal do not thunder thus, I sent today to my Physician, And as he says he finds no sign of death, Good madam, do not jest away your soul. O servant, how hast thou betrayed my life? Thou art my dearest lover now I see. Thou wilt not leave me, till my very death. Blessed be thy hand, I sacrifice a kiss To it and vengeance: worthily thou didst, He died deservedly, not content to enjoy My youth and beauty, riches and my fortune: But like a Chronicler of his own vice, In Epigrams and songs, he ruined my name, Renowned me for a Strumpet in the Courts, Of the French King, and the great Emperor. Didst thou not kill him drunk. O shameless woman! Thou shouldest, or in the embraces of his lust, It might have been a woman's vengeance. Yet I thank thee Sago, and would not wish him living Were my life instant ransom. O madam: in your soul have charity. there's money for the poor. O Lady this is but a branch of charity, An ostentation, or a liberal pride: Let me instruct your soul, for that, I fear, Within the painted sepulchre of flesh, Lies in a dead consumption: good madam, read,
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)
Medina, I thanke thee not, giue life to him, That sits with Risus, and the full cheek't Bacchus, The rich and mighty Monarchs of the earth, To me life is ten times more terrible, Then death can be to me, O breake my breast: Diuines and dying men may talke of hell, But in my heart the seuerall torments dwell. What Tanais, Nilus? or what Tioris swift? What Rhenus ferier then the Cataract? Although Neptolis cold, the waues of all the northerne sea, Should flow for euer, through these guiltie hands, Yet the sanguinolent staine would extant be. God pardon thee, we doe. The Countesse comes my Lord, vnto the death: But so vnwillingly, and vnprepar'd, That she is rather forst, thinking the summe She sent to you of twenty thousand pound, Would haue assured her of life. O Heauens! Is she not wearie yet of lust and life? Had it been Cressus wealth, she should haue died; Her goods by law, are all confiscate to vs, And die shee shall: her lust Would make a slaughter house of Italy. Ere she attain'd to foure and twenty yeeres, Three Earles, one Vicount, and this valiant Spaniard, Are knowne to abeene the fuell to her lust: Besides her secret louers, which charitably I iudge to haue beene but few, but some they were. Here is a glasse, wherein to view her soule, A Noble, but vnfortunate Gentleman, Cropt by her hand, as some rude passenger Doth pluck the tender Roses in the budde, Murder and lust, the least of which is death, And hath she yet any false hope of breath? What place is this? Madame, the Castle greene. There should be dancing on a greene I thinke. Madame: to you none other then your dance of death. Good my Lord Cardinall doe not thunder thus, I sent to day to my Phisician▪ And as he say's he findes no signe of death, Good Madame, doe not iest away your soule▪ O seruant, how hast thou betrai'd my life? Thou art my dearest louer now I see. Thou wilt not leaue me, till my very death. Bless't be thy hand, I sacrifice a kisse To it and vengeance: worthily thou didst, He died deseruedly, not content to inioy My youth and beauty, riches and my fortune: But like a Chronicler of his owne vice, In Epigrams and songs, he run'd my name, Renown'd me for a Strumpet in the Courts, Of the French King, and the great Emperor. Didst thou not kill him druncke. O shamelesse woman! Thou shouldest, or in the embraces of his lust, It might haue beene a womans vengeance. Yet I thanke thee Sago, and would not wish him liuing Were my life instant ransome. O Madame: in your soule haue charitie. Ther's money for the poore. O Lady this is but a branch of charitie, An ostentation, or a liberall pride: Let me instruct your soule, for that, I feare, Within the painted sepulcher of flesh, Lies in a dead consumption: good Madame, read,