Beaumont, Francis / Fletcher, John · published 1619 · first performed or written 1611 (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · Globe T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.85 · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O my small guts, a plague upon these sharp toed shoes, they are murderers. It is resolved, I bore it whilst I could, I can no more, Hell open all thy gates, And I will through them; if they be shut, I'll batter 'em, but I will find the place Where the most damned have dwelling; ere I end, Amongst them all they shall not have a sin, But I may call it mine: I must begin With murder of my friend, and so go on To an incestuous ravishing, and end My life and sins with a forbidden blow Upon myself. What Tragedy is near? That hand was never wont to draw a Sword, But it cried dead to something: have you bid Gobrius come? How do you Sir? well, is he coming? why Sir are you thus? why does your hand proclaim a lawless war Against yourself? Thou answerest me one question with another, Is Gobrius coming? Sir he is. 'tis well. I can forbear your questions then, be gone Sir, I have marked. Mark less, it troubles you and me. You are more variable than you were. It may be so. Today no Hermit could be humblier Than you were to us all. And what of this? And now you take new rage into your eyes, As you would look us all out of the Land. I do confess it, will that satisfy, I prithee get thee gone. Sir I will speak. Will ye? It is my duty, I fear you will kill yourself: I am a subject, And you shall do me wrong in't: 'tis my cause, And I may speak. Thou art not trained in sin, It seems Mardonius: kill myself, by heaven I will not do it yet; and when I will, I'll tell thee then: I shall be such a creature, That thou wilt give me leave without a word. There is a method in man's wickedness, It grows up by degrees; I am not come So high as killing of myself, there are A hundred thousand sins twixt me and it, Which I must do, I shall come too't at last; But take my oath not now, be satisfied, And get thee hence. I am sorry 'tis so ill. Be sorry then, True sorrow is alone, grieve by thyself. I pray you let me see your sword put up Before I go; I'll leave you then. Why so? What folly is this in thee? is it not As apt to mischief as it was before? Can I not reach it thinkest thou? these are toys For children to be pleased with, and not men; Now I am safe you think: I would the book Of Fate were here, my sword is not so sure, But I should get it out, and mangle that That all the destinies should quite forget Their fixed decrees, and haste to make us new Far other Fortunes, mine could not be worse, Wilt thou now leave me?
nodes 2292–2362 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 44 of 49 in this edition
Length
500 words · 636 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.852 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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)
O my ſmall guts, a plague vpon theſe ſharpe toe'd ſhooes, they are murderers. It is reſolu'd, I bore it whilſt I could, I can no more, Hell open all thy gates, And I will thorough them; if they be ſhut, Ile batter vm, but I will find the place VVhere the moſt damn'd haue dwelling; ere I end, Amongſt them all they ſhall not haue a ſinne, But I may call it mine: I muſt beginne VVith murder of my friend, and ſo goe on To an inceſtuous rauiſhing, and end My life and ſinnes with a forbidden blow Vpon my ſelfe. What Tragedie is nere? That hand was neuer wont to draw a Sword, But it cride dead to ſomething: haue you bid Gobrius come? How doe you Sir? vvell, is he comming? vvhy Sir are you thus? why does your hand proclaime a lawleſſe warre Againſt your ſelfe? Thou anſwereſt me one queſtion with another, Is Gobrius comming? Sir he is. Tis well. I can forbeare your queſtions then, be gone Sir, I haue markt. Marke leſſe, it troubles you and me. You are more variable then you were. It may be ſo. To day no Hermit could be humblier Then you were to vs all. And what of this? And now you take new rage into your eies, As you would looke vs all out of the Land. I doe confeſſe it, will that ſatiſfie, I prethee get thee gone. Sir I will ſpeake. Will ye? It is my dutie, I feare you will kill your ſelfe: I am a ſubiect, And you ſhall doe me wrong in't: tis my cauſe, And I may ſpeake. Thou art not traind in ſinne, It ſeemes Mardonius: kill my ſelfe, by heauen I will not doe it yet; and when I will, Ile tell thee then: I ſhall be ſuch a creature, That thou wilt giue me leaue without a word. There is a method in mans wickedneſſe, It growes vp by degrees; I am not come So high as killing of my ſelfe, there are A hundred thouſand ſinnes twixt me and it, Which I muſt doe, I ſhall come toot at laſt; But take my oath not now, be ſatiſfied, And get thee hence. I am ſorrie tis ſo ill. Be ſorrie then, True ſorrow is alone, grieue by thy ſelfe. I pray you let mee ſee your ſword put vp Before I goe; Ile leaue you then. Why ſo? What follie is this in thee? is it not As apt to miſchiefe as it was before? Can I not reach it thinkeſt thou? theſe are toyes For children to be pleaſ'd with, and not men; Now I am ſafe you thinke: I would the booke Of Fate were here, my ſword is not ſo ſure, But I ſhould get it out, and mangle that That all the deſtinies ſhould quite forget Their fix't decrees, and haſt to make vs new Farre other Fortunes, mine could not be worſe, Wilt thou now leaue me?