Beaumont, Francis / Fletcher, John · published 1619 · first performed or written 1610 [c.1610-1611] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.83 · 491 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
The fellows mad, sleep and speak sense. Force my swollen heart no further, I would save thee, your great maintainers are not here, they dare not, would they were all, and armed, I would speak loud, here's one should thunder to'em, will you tell me. Let me consider. Do, whose child thou wert, Whose honour thou hast murdered, whose grave opened, And so pulled on the gods, that in their justice They must restore him flesh again and life, And raise his dry bones to revenge this scandal. The gods are not of my mind, they had better Let'em lie sweet still in the earth, they'll stink here. Do you raise mirth out of my easiness, Forsake me then all weaknesses of nature, That make men women, speak you whore, speak truth, Or by the dear soul of thy sleeping father, This sword shall be thy lover, tell or i'll kill thee, And when thou hast told all, thou wilt deserve it. You will not murder me. No, 'tis a justice and a noble one, To put the light out of such base offenders. Help? By thy foul self, no humane help shall help thee, If thou criest, when I have killed thee, as I have Vowed to do, if thou confess not, naked as thou hast left Thine honour, will I leave thee, That on thy branded flesh the world may read Thy black shame and my justice, wilt thou bend yet? Yes. Up and begin your story. Oh I am miserable. 'tis true, thou art, speak truth still. I have offended, noble Sir forgive me. With what secure slave? Do not ask me Sir, Mine own remembrance is a misery Too mighty for me. Do not fall back again, my sword's unsheathed yet. What shall I do? Be true, and make your fault less. I dare not tell. Tell, or i'll be this day a killing thee. Will you forgive me then? Stay I must ask mine honour first, I have too much foolish nature in me, speak. Is there no more here? None but a fearful conscience, that's too many. Who be't? The King. My worthy fathers and my services Are liberally rewarded, King I thank thee: For all my dangers and my wounds thou hast paid me In my own metal, these are soldiers thanks. How long have you lived thus Euadne? Too long, too late I find it. Can you be very sorry? Would I were half as blameless. Woman thou wilt not to thy trade again. First to my grave. Would gods thou hadst been so blessed. Dost thou not hate this King now? prithee hate him. Has sunk thy fair soul, I command thee curse him, Curse till the gods hear and deliver him To thy just wishes, yet I fear Euadne You had rather play your game out. No I feel Too many sad confusions here to let in Any loose flame hereafter.
nodes 1637–1701 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 26 of 42 in this edition
Length
491 words · 624 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.826 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The fellowes mad, sleepe and speake sence. Force my swolne heart no further, I would saue thee, your great maintaines are not here, they dare not, would they were al, and armed, I would speake loud, heres one should thunder to'em, will you tell me. Let me consider. Doe, whose child thou wert, Whose honor thou hast murdered, whose graue opened, And so pul'd on the god, that in their iustice They must restore him flesh agen and life, And raise his drie bones to reuenge this scandall. The gods are not of my minde, they had better Let'em lie sweete still in the earth, theile stinke here. Doe you raise mirth out of my easinesse, Forsake me then all weaknesses of nature, That make men women, speake you whore, speake truth, Or by the deare soule of thy sleeping father, This sword shall be thy louer, tell or ile kill thee, And when thou hast told all, thou wilt deserue it. You will not murther me. No, tis a iustice and a noble one, To put the light out of such base offenders. Helpe? By thy foule selfe, no humaine help shall help thee, If thou criest, when I haue kild thee, as I haue Vow'd to doe, if thou confesse not, naked as thou hast left Thine honor, will I leaue thee, That on thy branded flesh the world may reade Thy blacke shame and my iustice, wilt thou bend yet? Yes. Vp and beginne your storie. Oh I am miserable. Tis true, thou art, speake truth still. I haue offended, noble Sir forgiue me. With what secure slaue? Doe not aske me Sir, Mine owne remembrance is a miserie Too mightie for me. Doe not fall backe agen my sword's vnsheathed yet. What shall I doe? Be true, and make your fault lesse. I dare not tell. Tell, or ile be this day a killing thee. Will you forgiue me then? Stay I must aske mine honour first, I haue too much foolish nature in me, speake. Is there no more here? None but a fearfull conscience, that's too many. Who ist? The King. My worthy fathers and my seruices Are liberally rewarded, King I thanke thee: For all my dangers and my wounds thou hast paid me In my owne metall, these are souldiers thankes. How long haue you liued thus Euadne? Too long, too late I finde it. Can you be very sorry? Would I were halfe as blamelesse. Woman thou wilt not to thy trade againe. First to my graue. Would gods thou hadst beene so blest. Dost thou not hate this King now? prethee hate him. Has sunke thy faire soule, I command thee curse him, Curse till the gods heare and deliuer him To thy iust wishes, yet I feare Euadne You had rather play your game out. No I feele Too many sad confusions here to let in Any loose flame hereafter.