Philaster, or Love Lies a-Bleeding · chunk 35 of 40
Beaumont, Francis / Fletcher, John · published 1620 · first performed or written 1609 [May(?)] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · Globe unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 484 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Sir, if you love it in plain truth, for now there is no masking in't, this gentleman the prisoner that you gave me, is become my keeper. And through all the bitter threats, your jealousies, and his ill fate, have wrought him, thus nobly hath he struggled, and at length arrived here: My dear husband. Your dear husband. Call in the Captain of the Citadel, where you shall keep your wedding, I'll provide a mask shall make your Hymen turn his saffron into a sullen coat, and sing sad requiems to your departing souls, blood shall put out your torches, and instead of gaudy flowers about your wanton necks, an Axe shall hang, like a prodigious meteor, ready to crop your love's sweets. Hear you gods: From this time do I shake all title off of father to this woman, this base woman, and what there is of venge in a Lion chast amongst dogs, or robbed of his dear young, the same enforced more terrible, more mighty, look from me. Sir, by that little life that I have left to swear by, There's nothing can stir me from myself. What I have done, I have done, without repentance, For death to me can be no bugbear, as long as Pharamont, Is not my headsman. Sweet peace upon thy soul thou worthy maid, When ere thou diest, for this time I'll excuse thee over by thy prologue. Sir, let me speak next, And let my dying words be better with you Then my dull living actions: If you aim at the life Of this sweet innocent, you are a tyrant and a savage monster, That feeds upon the blood you gave a life to, Your memory shall be as foul behind you as you are living: All your better deeds shall be in water writ; But this in marble. No Chronicle shall speak you, Though your own, but for a shame of men: No Monument, though high and big as Pelion, shallbe able to cover this base murder, make it rich with brass, Gold and shining jasper, like the Pyramids; Lay on Epitaphs, such as make great men gods, My little Marble, that only clothes my ashes, not my faults, Shall far out shine it: and for after issues, Think not so madly of the heavenly wisdoms, That they will give you more, for your mad rage to cut off: Unless it be some snake, or something like yourself, That in his birth shall strangle you: Remember my father king, There was a fault, but I forgive it, let that sin Persuade you to love this Lady, if you have a soul. Think, save her and be saved, for myself, I have so long Expected this glad hour, so languished under you, And daily withered, that by the gods, it is a joy to die, I find a recreation in't. Where's the King? Here.
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)
Sir, if you loue it in plaine truth, for now there is no masking in't, this gentleman the prisoner that you gaue mee, is become my keeper. And through all the bitter threats, your Iealousies, and his il fate, haue wrought him, thus nobly hath hee strugled, and at length arriued here: My deere husband. Your deere husband. Call in the Captaine of the Citadell, where you shall keepe your wedding, I'le prouide a maske shall make your Hymen turne his saffron into a sullen coate, and sing sad requiems to your departing soules, blood shal put out your torches, and insteed of gawdy flowers about your wanton necks, an Axe shall hang, like a prodigious Metour, ready to crop your loues sweetes. Heare you gods: From this time do I shake all title off of father to this woman, this base woman, and what there is of vengein a Lyon chaft amongst dogs, or rob'd of his deere young, the same inforc't more terrible, more mighty, looke from me. Sir, by that little life that I haue left to sweare by, There's nothing can stirre me from my selfe. What I haue done, I haue done, without repntance, For death to me can be no bugbare, as long as Pharamont, Is not my heads-man. Sweete peace vpon thy soule thou worthy maid, When ere thou diest, for this time I'le excuse thee ore by thy prologue. Sir, let me speake next, And let my dying words be better with you Then my dull liuing actions: Ifyou aime at the life Of this sweete innocent, you are a tyrant and a sauage monster, That feedes vpon the blood you gaue a life to, Your memory shall be as foule behind you as you are liuing: All your better deedes shall be in water writ; But this in marble. No Chronicle shall speake you, Though your owne, but for a shame of men: No Monument, though high and big as Pelion, Shalbe able to couer this base murder, make it rich with brasse, Gold and shining Iasper, like the Pyramides; Lay on Epitaphes, such as make great men gods, My little Marble, that onely clothes my ashes, not my faults, Shall farre out shine it: and for after issues, Thinke not so madly of the heauenly wisedomes, That they will giue you more, for your mad rage to cut off: Vnlesse it be some snake, or something like your selfe, That in his birth shall strengle you: Remember my father king, There was a fault, but I forgiue it, let that sinne Perswade you to loue this Lady, if you haue a soule. Thinke, saue her and be saued, for my selfe, I haue so long Expected this glad houre, so languisht vnder you, And dayly withered, that by the gods, it is a ioy to die, I finde a recreation in't. Where's the King? Heere.