S., S. · published 1616 · first performed or written 1615 [c.1614-1615] (Annals) comedy · Queen Anne's Men unassigned nearest T51 Parents and children: blessing, birthrig · 496 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T51: esau, iacob, father, son, isaac, god, love, birthright, parents, thing.
Rise with heaven's benediction. Lives my Father? Guess by my grief and silence. Umh my doubts Wrap me in further maze. My father dead? My mother living in his enemy's house? Let's study. Oft I have heard my father moan, That this same woman's lust had him undone. This gives strong faith. Why should she else live here, But to some such vile end? By heaven 'tis clear. Oh that this sap, which my life feeds upon, Did not confess a derivation From that corrupted trunk! Well, I will force Nature run back with a preposterous course. I'll fashion a forgetful lunacy, That ere I was her soon. But on my soul, Not touch her with least hurt.— Woman come hither. Woman! Dear Robin, not thy mother? bless me. Why dost thou gripe me thus? Oh some black storm Is rising on thy brow. Storm? No, 'tis thunder. Can you read this? Yes, I can spell't too well. It speaks my death, dear son— Come, come, forget These filial rights, and Nature's attributes. Prepare yourself to— What? Oh desperate child. Oft have thy bended knees with a just duty Kissed the cold earth, to beg my prayers to heaven, For thy prosperity: oft desired forgiveness Of thy wild infant-errors. Oft have these Borne thee with soft indulgence: but now, see, A woeful mother bends her humble knee To her incensed son; not to conserve This flesh from death, but thy black soul from hell: Th' unscaped dungeon, where all Parricides dwell. Think: if thy spirits be not grown mad and wild, Pity a mother kneeling to her child. I'm deafer than an Usurer to your moans. I must, like Nero, see the place I bred in. Be brief in answer: did you never wrong my father's nuptial bed. Never. Take heed. Clog not that breast with more sin, that must bleed. Speak truth and save your soul. Lie you not here to satiate his lust, That robbed my father? speak, or you're but dust. No on my soul. Now on thy soul thou liest. Confess, be plain, or without pause thou diest. Help, heavens or men. What prodigy's this? Nothing Sir, alas nothing: 'twas but my fear. It is my servant Sir; he meant no ill. Son, son, howsoever he serves you, I'm sure he does not serve God. Without question, he would have ravished her. He would have refreshed her, Sir. Speak widow, is 't not true?— away with him. Cousin Nice, make his mittimus. It's not amiss to let him feel some smart. His life they cannot touch: what his offence Deserves in heavens, strict justice, mercy pardon. Parents learn this in tendering Children's state: Too much indulgence is not love but hate. Sure his complexion doth not give it: let me see your hand, Sir. Will you feel it, Sir? (Son offer violence to the mother?) strange! Till I can sound this mystery of ill, I'll to the prison and relieve him still.
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)
Riſe with heauen's benediction. Liues my Father? Gueſſe by my greefe and ſilence. Vm'h my doubts Wrappe me in further maze. My father dead? My mother liuing in his enemies houſe? Let's ſtudy. Oft I haue heard my father mone, That this ſame womans luſt had him vndone. This giues ſtrong faith. Why ſhould ſhee els liue here, But to ſome ſuch vile end? By heauen tis cleare. Oh that this ſappe, which my life feedes vpon, Did not confeſſe a deriuation From that corrupted trunke! Well, I will force Nature runne backe with a prepoſterous courſe. Ile faſhion a forgetfull lunacie, That ere I was her ſoone. But on my ſoule, Not touch her with leaſt hurt.—Woman come hither. Woman! Deare Robin, not thy mother? bleſſe mee. Why doſt thou gripe me thus? Oh ſome blacke ſtorme Is riſing on thy brow. Storme? No, tis thunder. Can you read this? Yes, I can ſpell't too well. It ſpeakes my death, deare ſonne— Come, come, forget Theſe filiall rights, and Natures attributes. Prepare your ſelfe to— What? Oh deſperate child. Oft haue thy bended knees with a iuſt dutie Kiſs'd the cold earth, to begge my prayers to heauen, For thy proſperity: oft deſir'd forgiueneſſe Of thy wild infant-errors. Oft haue theſe Borne thee with ſoft indulgence: but now, ſee, A wofull mother bends her humble knee To her incenſed ſonne; not to conſerue This fleſh from death, but thy black ſoule from hell: Th' vnſcaped dungeon, where all Parricides dwell. Thinke: if thy ſpirits be not growne mad and wild, Pitie a mother kneeling to her child. I'm deafer then an Vſurer to your mones. I muſt, like Nero, ſee the place I bred in. Be briefe in anſwere: did you neuer wrong my fathers nuptiall bed. Neuer. Take heede. Clogge not that breſt with more ſin, that muſt bleed. Speake truth and ſaue your ſoule. Lye you not here to ſatiate his luſt, That robb'd my father? ſpeake, or y' are but duſt. No on my ſoule. Now on thy ſoule thou lyeſt. Confeſſe, be plaine, or without pawſe thou dyeſt. Helpe, heauens or men. What prodigie's this? Nothing Sir, alas nothing: 'twas but my feare. It is my ſeruant Sir; he meant no ill. Sonne, ſonne, howſoeuer he ſerues you, I'm ſure he does not ſerue God. Without queſtion, he would haue rauiſh'd her. He would haue refreſh'd her, Sir. Speake widow, is 't not true?—away with him. Couſin Nice, make his mittimus. It's not amiſſe to let him feele ſome ſmart. His life they cannot touch: what his offence Deſerues in heauens, ſtrict iuſtice, mercy pardon. Parents learne this in tendring Childrens ſtate: Too much indulgence is not loue but hate. Sure his complexion doth not giue it: let me ſee your hand, Sir. Will you feele it, Sir? (Sonne offer violence to the mother?) ſtrange! Till I can ſound this myſterie of ill, Ile to the priſon and relieue him ſtill.