Anonymous / Fletcher, John / Massinger, Philip · published 1621 · first performed or written 1617 [1613-1621] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 498 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
So is sleep Sir, Or anything that's merely ours and mortal, We were begotten gods else; but those fears Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts, Fly like the shapes of clouds we form to nothing. Suppose it death. I do. And endless parting With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason: For in the silent grave, no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel, nothing's hard, Nor nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust, and an endless darkness; and dare you woman Desire this place? 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest, Children begin it to us, strong men seek it, And kings from height of all their painted glories Fall, like spent exhalations, to this centre; And those are fools that fear it, or imagine A few unhandsome pleasures, or life's profits Can recompense this place; and mad that stays it, Till age blow out their lights, or rotten humours, Bring 'em dispersed to the earth. Then you can suffer. As willingly as say it. Martell, a wonder, Here is a woman that dares die, yet tell me, Are you a wife? I am Sir. And have children,--- She sighs, and weeps. O none Sir. Dare you venture, For a poor barren praise you ne'er shall hear, To part with these sweet hopes? With all but heaven; And yet die full of children; he that reads me When I am ashes, is my son in wishes, And those chaste dames that keep my memory, Singing my yearly requiems, are my daughters. Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledge; And what I must do Lady. You are the king Sir, And what you do i'll suffer, and that blessing That you desire the God's shower on the kingdom. Thus much before I strike then, for I must kill you, The gods have willled it so; they're made the blessing Must make France young again, and me a man, Keep up your strength still nobly. Fear me not. And meet death like a measure: I am steadfast. Thou shalt be sainted woman, and thy tomb Cut out in Crystal, pure and good as thou art; And on it shall be graven every age, Succeeding peers of France that rise by thy fall, Tell thou liest there like old and fruitful nature. Darest thou behold thy happiness? I Dare Sir. Ha? Pulls off her veil, lets fall his sword. O Sir, you must not do it. No, I dare not, There is an Angel keeps that paradise, A fiery angel friend; o virtue, virtue, Ever and endless virtue. Strike Sir, strike; And if in my poor death fair France may merit, Give me a thousand blows, be killing me A thousand days. First let the earth be barren, And man no more remembered; rise Ordella, The nearest to thy maker, and the purest That ever dull flesh showed us,----- o my heartstrings.
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)
So is sleepe Sir, Or anything that's meerely ours and mortall, We were begotten gods else; but those feares Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts, Fly like the shapes of clouds we forme to nothing. Suppose it death. I do. And endlesse parting With all we can call ours, with all our sweetenes, With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason: For in the silent graue, no conuersation, No ioyfull tread of friends, no voyce of louers, No careful fathers counsell, nothing's hard, Nor nothing is, but all obliuion, Dust, and an endlesse darkenesse; and dare you woman Desire this place? 'Tis of all sleepes the sweetest, Children begin it to vs, strong men seeke it, And kings from heigth of all their painted glories Fall, like spent exhalations, to this center; And those are fooles that feare it, or imagine A few vnhandsome pleasures, or lifes profits Can recompence this place; and mad that staies it, Till age blow out their lights, or rotten humors, Bring vm despers'd to the earth. Then you can suffer. As willingly as say it. Martell, a wonder, Here is a woman that dares die, yet tel me, Are you a wife? I am Sir. And haue children,--- She sighes, and weepes. O none Sir. Dare you venter, For a poore barren praise you ne're shall heare, To part with these sweete hopes? With all but heauen; And yet die ful of children; he that reades me When I am ashes, is my son in wishes, And those chast dames that keepe my memory, Singing my yearely requiems, are my daughters. Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledge; And what I must do Lady. You are the king Sir, And what you do i'le suffer, and that blessing That you desire the gods showre on the kingdome. Thus much before I strike then, for I must kill you, The gods haue will'd it so; they'r made the blessing Must make France young agen, and me a man, Keepe vp your strength still nobly. Feare me not. And meete death like a measure: I am stedfast. Thou shalt be sainted woman, and thy tombe Cut out in Cristall, pure and good as thou art; And on it shall be grauen euery age, Succeeding peeres of France that rise by thy fall, Tell thou liest there like old and fruitefull nature. Darest thou behold thy happinesse? I Dare Sir. Ha? Pulls off her vaise, lets fall his sword. O Sir, you must not do it. No, I dare not, There is an Angell keepes that paradice, A fiery angell friend; o vertue, vertue, Euer and endlesse vertue. Strike Sir, strike; And if in my poore death faire France may merit, Giue me a thousand blowes, be killing me A thousand dayes. First let the earth be barren, And man no more remembred; rise Ordella, The nearest to thy maker, and the purest That euer dull flesh shewed vs, ----- o my hart-strings.