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 · 470 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
I wish no more of heaven, Nor hope no more, but a sufficient anger To torture thee. See, she that makes you see Sir, And to your misery still see, your mother, The mother of your woes Sir, of your waking, The mother of your people's cries, and curses, Your murdering mother, your malicious mother: physicians, half my state to sleep an hour now; Is it so mother? Yes it is so son; And were it yet again to do, it should be. She nods again, swing her. But mother, For yet I love that reverence, and to death Dare not forget you have been so; was this, This endless misery, this cureless malice, This snatching from me all my youth together, All that you made me for, and happy mothers Crowned with eternal time are proud to finish, Done by your will? Brun. It was, and by that will. O mother, do not lose your 〈...〉 'Tis all the soul of woman, all the sweetness; Forget not I beseech you what are children, Nor how you are groaned for 'em, to what love They are borne inheritors, with what care kept, And as they rise to ripeness still remember How they imp our your age; and when time calls you, That as an Autumn flower you fall, forget not How round about your hearse they hang like pennons. Holy fool, Whose patience to prevent my wrongs has killed thee, Preach not to me of punishments, or fears, Or what I ought to be, but what I am, A woman in her liberal will defeated, In all her greatness crossed, in pleasure blasted, My angers have been laughed at, my ends slighted, And all those glories that had crowned my fortunes. Suffered by blasted virtue to be scattered, I am the fruitful mother of these angers, And what such have done, read, and know thy ruin. Heaven forgive you. She tells you true, for milions of her mischiefs Are now apparent, Protaldy, we have taken An equal agent with her, to whose care After the damned defeat on you, she trusted The bringing in of Leoner the bastard Son to your murdered brother; her physician By this time is attached to that damned devil. 'Tis like he will be so, for ere we came, Fearing an equal justice for his mischiefs, He drenched himself. He did like one of mine thine. Must I still see these miseries, no night To hide me from their horrors, that Protaldy See justice fall upon. Now I could sleep too. I'll give you yet more poppy, bring the Lady And heaven in her embraces; give him quiet Madam, unveil yourself. I do forgive you. And though you sought my blood, yet i'll pray for you, Art thou alive? Now could you sleep. For ever.
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)
I wish no more of heauen, Nor hope no more, but a sufficient anger To torture thee. See, she that makes you see Sir, And to your misery still see, your mother, The mother of your woes Sir, of your waking, The mother of your peoples cries, and curses, Your murdering mother, your malicious mother: Phisitians, halfe my state to sleepe an houre now; Is it so mother? Yes it is so sonne; And vvere it yet againe to do, it should be. She nods againe, swing her. But mother, For yet I loue that reuerence, and to death Dare not forget you haue bin so; was this, This endlesse misery, this curelesse malice, This snatching from me all my youth together, All that you made me for, and happy mothers Crownde with eternall time are proud to finish, Done by your will? Brun. It was, and by that will. O mother, do not lose your 'Tis all the soule of woman, all the sweetenesse; Forget not I beseech you what are children, Nor how you are gron'd for vm, to what loue They are borne inheritors, with what care kept, And as they rise to ripenesse still remember How they impe our your age; and when time calls you, That as an Autum flower you fall, forget not How round about your hearse they hang like penons. Holy foole, Whose patience to preuent my wrongs has kill'd thee, Preach not to me of punishments, or feares, Or what I ought to be, but what I am, A woman in her liberall will defeated, In all her greatnesse crost, in pleasure blasted, My angers haue bin laught at, my ends slighted, And all those glories that had crownd my fortunes. Suffer'd by blasted vertue to be scatter'd, I am the fruitefull mother of these angers, And what such haue done, reade, and know thy ruine. Heauen forgiue you. She tells you true, for milions of her mischiefes Are now apparent, Protaldye, we haue taken An equall agent with her, to whose care After the damnde defeate on you, she trusted The bringing in of Leoner the bastard Sonne to your murder'd brother; her phisitian By this time is attacht to that dam'd diuell. 'Tis like he will be so, for ere we came, Fearing an equall iustice for his mischiefes, He drench't himselfe. Hee did like one of mine thine. Must I still see these miseries, no night To hide me from their horrors, that Protaldye See iustice fall vpon. Now I could sleepe too. Ile giue you yet more poppy, bring the Lady And heauen in her embraces; giue him quiet Madam, vnuaile your selfe. I do forgiue you. And though you sought my blood, yet ile pray for you, Art thou aliue? Now could you sleepe. For euer.