Anonymous / Fletcher, John / Massinger, Philip · published 1621 · first performed or written 1617 [1613-1621] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 513 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
But your good honour Has a prayer's in store if all should fail. I could have prayed, and handsomely. But age and an ill memory: Has spoiled your primer. Yet if there be a man of faith i'the Court, And can pray for a pension. Here's the King Sir, And those that will pray without pay. Then pray for me too. How does your grace now feel yourself? What's that? Nothing at all Sir, but your fancy: Tell me, Can ever these eyes more shut up in slumbers, Assure my soule there in And rest for humane labours? do not you And all the world as I do, out stare time, And live like funeral lamps never extinguished? Is there a grave, and do not flatter me, Nor fear to tell me truth, and in that grave Is there a hope I shall sleep, can I die, Are not my miseries immortal? o The happiness of him that drinks his water After his weary day, and sleeps for ever, Why do you crucify me thus with faces, And gaping strangely upon one another, When shall I rest? O Sir, be patient. Am I not patient? have I not endured More than a mangy dog among your dosses? Am I not now your patient? ye can make Unwholesome fools sleep for a guarded foot-cloth; Whores for a hot sin offering; yet I must crave That feed ye, and protect ye, and proclaim ye, Because my power is far above your searching, Are my diseases so? can ye cure none But those of equal ignorance, dare ye kill me? We do beseech your grace be more reclaimed, This talk doth but distemper you. Well, I will die In spite of all your potions; one of you sleep, Lie down and sleep here, that I may behold What blessed rest it is my eyes are robbed of: See, he can sleep, sleep anywhere, sleep now, When he that wakes for him can never slumber, is't not a dainty ease? Your grace shall feel it. O never I, never, the eyes of heaven See but their certain motions, and then sleep, The rages of the Ocean have their slumbers, And quiet silver calms; each violence Crowns in his end a peace, but my fixed fires Shall never, never set, who's that? No woman, Ere thou shalt sleep, dost thou see him? Yes, and curse him, And all that love him fool, and all live by him. Why art thou such a monster? Why art thou So tame a knave to ask me? Hope of hell, By this fair holy light, and all his wrongs Which are above thy years, almost thy vices, Thou shalt not rest, not feel more what is pity, Know nothing necessary, meet no society, But what shall curse and crucify thee, feel in thyself Nothing but what thou art, bane, and bad conscience, Till this man rest; but for whose reverence Because thou art his mother, I would say Whore, this shall be, do ye nod? i'll waken ye With my sword's point.
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)
But your good honor Has a prayers in store if all should faile. I could haue prayed, and handsomely. But age and an ill memory: Has spoyl'd your primmer. Yet if there be a man of faith i'the Court, And can pray for a pension. Here's the King Sir, And those that will pray without pay. Then pray for me too. How does your grace now feele your selfe? What's that? Nothing at all Sir, but your fancy: Tell me, Can euer these eyes more shut vp in slumbers, Assure my soule there in And rest for humane labors? do not you And all the world as I do, out stare time, And liue like funerall lampes neuer extinguisht? Is there a graue, and do not flatter me, Nor feare to tell me truth, and in that graue Is there a hope I shall sleepe, can I die, Are not my miseries immortall? o The happinesse of him that drinkes his water After his weary day, and sleepes for euer, Why do you crucifie me thus with faces, And gaping strangely vpon one another, When shall I rest? O Sir, be patient. Am I not patient? haue I not endur'd More then a maingy dog among your dosses? Am I not now your patient? yee can make Vnholesome fooles sleepe for a garded foote-cloth; Whores for a hot sin offering; yet I must craue That feede ye, and protect ye, and proclame ye, Because my powre is far aboue your searching, Are my diseases so? can ye cure none But those of equall ignorance, dare ye kill me? We do beseech your grace be more reclam'd, This talke doth but distemper you. Well, I will die In spight of all your potlons; one of you sleepe, Lie downe and sleepe here, that I may behold What blessed rest it is my eyes are robde of: See, he can sleepe, sleepe any where, sleepe now, When he that wakes for him can neuer slumber, I'st not a dainty ease? Your grace shall feele it. O neuer I, neuer, the eyes of heauen See but their certaine motions, and then sleepe, The rages of the Ocean haue their slumbers, And quiet siluer calmes; each violence Crownes in his end a peace, but my fixt fires Shall neuer, neuer set, who's that? No woman, Ere thou shalt sleepe, doest thou see him? Yes, and curse him, And all that loue him foole, and all liue by him. Why art thou such a monster? Why art thou So tame a knaue to aske me? Hope of hell, By this faire holy light, and all his wrongs Which are aboue thy yeares, almost thy vices, Thou shalt not rest, not feele more what is pitty, Know nothing necessary, meete no society, But what shall curse and crucifie thee, feele in thy selfe Nothing but what thou art, bane, and bad conscience, Till this man rest; but for whose reuerence Because thou art his mother, I would say Whore, this shall be, do ye nod? ile waken ye With my swords point.