S., S. · published 1616 · first performed or written 1615 [c.1614-1615] (Annals) comedy · Queen Anne's Men T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.87 · 470 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Its dear, so bought. 'twill not redeem your soul. Say, with deep sluices, all these lively springs, That run through the soft channels of my veins, Should be exhausted by thee, or thine by me, And burning malice should be quenched in blood: He that speeds best, wins what he should abhor, And glories to be cursed a conqueror. Let Sophisters alone with these distinctions. Our moderators are our swords: the question, That calls us forth, as warlike disputants Beyond decision of the gown-furred peace. Draw then thy argument, and let's talk indeed. We cannot reason soundly, till we bleed. Let's think the terms, on which we venture blood. Th'effects are weighty, let the cause be good. Thy father hath undone me, and mine issue. The law affords no succour: what remains, But only to let him bleed through thy veins? How have I wronged thee? Ask no more. The State Of our strife is, thou art his Son, I hate. No help? let fury arbitrate the rest. This passion must but centre in one breast. Yet let's embrace, and pardon; and even love In hate. O suffer not the dying blood To prejudice the sad survivors good. What unexpected clangor frights the peace Of my delighted solitary walks? What sons of mischief in their fury tread These unfrequented paths?— stay— My sons, hear age but speak; wisdom is old. Peace, Dotard. On my knees, which doubling age Hath scarce left able to support my corpse: By the remaining tears of forty years Spent in this penitential order: the last drops, The drying hand of age hath left to dew This withered garden: I implore— beseech. Father, you speak to rocks, or the surd waves. Then on this innocent bosom turn your swords, And ease a weak soul of her tedious portage, Some hour before her time. O do not fly me. Let the few drops of my slow-pacing blood, That stands in my cold channels, expiate yours. Oh let a falling trunk redeem two plants. No remedy? let me exclaim for help. (The devil part you:) if I should now ha' paid for my charity— well: 'twas this Church-coat that saved me. Oh thou hast slain me: hold thy conquering hand. heavens, you are too just paymasters. Thy sword, With a fate-signed direction, hath cut short My hoped fortunes in a longer breath. But I forgive thee. Fly— stay. I have two Orphans in this hour deprived Of a bad Parent. For their mother— nothing. She has a trade to live on. O let my dying breath Beg this one mercy at thy bloodstained hands: Relieve them with now thine, once their own lands. Forgive my deed, and by that mercy, I Depend on for my sins; my mercy shall Raise up the children for the father's fall. Farewell.
nodes 162–221 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 4 of 42 in this edition
Length
470 words · 631 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.874 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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)
Its deare, ſo bought. Twil not redeeme your ſoule. Say, with deepe ſluces, all theſe liuely ſprings, That runne through the ſoft channels of my veines, Should be exhauſt by thee, or thine by me, And burning malice ſhould be quencht in bloud: He that ſpeeds beſt, wins what he ſhould abhorre, And glories to be curſt a conqueror. Let Sophiſters alone with theſe diſtinctions. Our moderators are our ſwords: the queſtion, That cals vs forth, as warlike diſputants Beyond deciſion of the gowne-furr'd peace. Draw then thy argument, and let's talke indeed. We cannot reaſon ſoundly, till we bleed. Let's thinke the tearmes, on which we venture bloud. Th'ffects are waighty, let the cauſe be good. Thy father hath vndone me, and mine iſſue. The law affords no ſuccour: what remaines, But onely to let him bleed through thy vaines? How haue I wrongd thee? Aske no more. The State Of our ſtrife is, thou art his Sonne, I hate. No helpe? let fury arbitrate the reſt. This paſſion muſt but center in one breſt. Yet let's embrace, and pardon; and euen loue In hate. O ſuffer not the dying blood To preiudice the ſad ſuruiuours good. What vnexpected clangor frights the peace Of my delighted ſolitary walkes? What ſonnes of miſchiefe in their fury tread Theſe vnfrequented pathes?—ſtay—hold. My ſonnes, heare age but ſpeake; wiſedome is old. Peace, Dotard. On my knees, which doubling age Hath ſcarce left able to ſupport my corps: By the remaining teares of fortie yeares Spent in this penitentiall order: the laſt drops, The drying hand of age hath left to dew This witherd garden: I implore—beſeech. Father, you ſpeake to rocks, or the ſurd waues. Then on this innocent boſome turn your ſwords, And eaſe a weake ſoule of her tedious portage, Some houre before her time. O do not flie me. Let the few drops of my ſlow-pacing blood, That ſtands in my cold channels, expiate yours. Oh let a falling trunke redeeme two plants. No remedie? let me exclaime for helpe. (The diuell part you:) if I ſhould now ha'paid for my charitie—well: twas this Church-coate that ſau'd me. Oh thou haſt ſlaine me: hold thy conquering hand. Heauens, you are too iuſt pay-maſters. Thy ſword, With a fate-ſign'd direction, hath cut ſhort My hoped fortunes in a longer breath. But I forgiue thee. Flie—ſtay. I haue two Orphans in this houre depriu'd Of a bad Parent. For their mother—nothing. She has a trade to liue on. O let my dying breath Beg this one mercie at thy bloud-ſtaind hands: Releeue them with now thine, once their owne lands. Forgiue my deed, and by that mercie, I Depend on for my ſinnes; my mercy ſhall Raiſe vp the children for the fathers fall. Farewell.