S., S. · published 1616 · first performed or written 1615 [c.1614-1615] (Annals) comedy · Queen Anne's Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
I love her freely: she's to me as th'air. Her beauty is best and blessed, whose soul is fair. The Wolf is come. Good evening to you Sir. My wish requite you. You walk to have a shoot, Sir: I depart. I would be loath to prejudice your sport. Saw you not Mr Sager, Sir, of late? This is his walk: I would fain speak with him. Why would you speak with him? Sir, for no harm. I do not think you mean it; but you know, he's valiant like a Lion: if cross words should stir your bloods to quarrel— Sir, take heed. he'll be too hard for you, and your long weapon. This meadow is his evening walk. Farewell to you Sir. Good night M. Benjamin; you need not doubt me. If I could meet him at th' advantage now, He is the fowl I'd shoot at. His life done, The Farm is mine. Oh ye, whose hopes depend, Like lingering shadows, on another's end, What need you wait with patience nature's leisure, When such an engine can soon work your pleasure? Tarry: yonder's a man— now by his habit It should be Sager. What? and fast asleep? Wished opportunity to my revenge. I'll kill him ere he wakes. Stay, grant he should In this unbeaten meadow lately act Some horrid sin, please his adulterous lust: I should then with his body strike his soul, And sink them both together. Reason no further Thou chiding conscience. See, the Fates have placed Him fit for vengeance: enemy, sleep thy last. he's Planet-struck, fallen down: now to my Farm. He that would rise, must thank his wit or arm. Oh but my murder! pish, whoever stood In fortune's height, without some touch of blood? This I divined. Happy prevention! Go, thou despairing wretch, and for thy will, Ten thousand swords shall thy vexed conscience kill. 'T was a vain blow to us, and no blood spilled, Not less in thy intention is thy guilt. This Clergy-habit which you have assumed, Make good a while for your supposed death; Allow his tyranny free scope: live close: Till time shall ripen those events, we strive To build on this vile ground. Hold, there's my key: Into my chamber; I sup at my fathers. What, come again? I cannot be at rest: I must needs see, If this late murdered corpse removed be. Some gold I have put up in this portmanteau: If I should be pursued, this may relieve me. Ay me! the body's gone: sure it's revealed: Murder from heavens eye cannot be concealed. What shall I do? sit down: lie there, my gold. Holla, Cousin Benjamin. So ho ho. Oh ho ho. Oh me, the country's up, what shall I do? This fool hath frayed him. Oh guilt! how hast thou made Cowherd of man to fly at his own shade! Now Cousin Nice, what holla you for?
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)
I loue her freely: ſhee's to me as th'ayre. Her beauty is beſt and bleſt, whoſe ſoule is faire. The Wolfe is come. Good euening to you Sir. My wiſh requite you. You walke to haue a ſhoot, Sir: I depart. I would be loth to preiudice your ſport. Saw you not Mr Sager, Sir, of late? This is his walke: I would faine ſpeake with him. Why would you ſpeake with him? Sir, for no harme. I do not thinke you meane it; but you know, hee's valiant like a Lyon: if croſſe words ſhould ſtirre your blouds to quarrell—Sir, take heed. Hee'l be too hard for you, and your long weapon. This medow is his euening walke. Farewell to you Sir. Good night M. Beniamin; you need not doubt me. If I could meet him at th' aduantage now, He is the Fowle I'd ſhoot at. His life done, The Farme is mine. Oh ye, whoſe hopes depend, Like Imgring ſhadowes, on anothers end, What need you waite with patience natures leaſure, When ſuch an engine can ſoone work your pleaſure? Tarry: yonder's a man—now by his habite It ſhould be Sager. What? and faſt aſleepe? Wiſh'd opportunity to my reuenge. Ile kill him ere he wakes. Stay, grant he ſhould In this vnbeaten medow lately act Some horrid ſinne, pleaſe his adulterous luſt: I ſhould then with his body ſtrike his ſoule, And ſinke them both together. Reaſon no further Thou chiding conſcience. See, the Fates haue plac't Him ſit for vengeance: enemie, ſleepe thy laſt. Hee's Planet-ſtrucke, falne downe: now to my Farme. He that would riſe, muſt thanke his wit or arme. Oh but my murder! piſh, who euer ſtood In fortunes height, without ſome touch of blood? This I diuin'd. Happy preuention! Goe, thou deſpairing wretch, and for thy will, Ten thouſan ſwords ſhall thy vex'd conſcience kill. 'T was a vaine blow to vs, and no bloud ſpilt, Not leſſe in thy intention is thy guilt. This Clergy-habite which you haue aſſum'd, Make good a while for your ſuppoſed death; Allow his tyrannie free ſcope: liue cloſe: Till time ſhall ripen thoſe euents, we ſtriue To build on this vile ground. Hold, ther's my key: Into my chamber; I ſup at my fathers. What, come againe? I cannot be at reſt: I muſt needes ſee, If this late murdered corps remoued be. Some gold I haue put vp in this Portmantua: If I ſhould be purſu'd, this may relieue me. Ay me! the bodi's gone: ſure it's reueal'd: Murder from heauens eye cannot be conceal'd. What ſhall I doe? ſit downe: lye there, my gold. Holla, Couſin Beniamin. So ho ho. Oh ho ho. Oh me, the Countrie's vp, what ſhall I do? This foole hath frayd him. Oh guilt! how haſt thou made Cowherd of man to fly at his owne ſhade! Now Couſin Nice, what holla you for?