Dekker, Thomas / Massinger, Philip · published 1622 · first performed or written 1620 [licensed for stage, Oct 6; revised and re-licensed for stage, Jul 7, 1624] (Annals) tragedy · Red Bull (Revels) Company (first) unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 487 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
What piece Of this State-wheel (which winds up Antoninus) Is broke, it runs so jarringly? the Man is from himself divided: Oh thou the eye By which I wonders see, tell me my Harpax, What gad fly tickles so this Macrinus, That up. flinging thy tail, he breaks thus from me, Oh Sir, his brainpan is a bed of Snakes, Whose stings shoot through his eyeballs, whose poisonous spawn Engenders such a fry of speckled villainies, That valesse charms more strong than Adamant be used, the Roman Angels wings shall melt, And Caesar's Diadem be from his head Spurned by base feet, the Laurel which he wears (Returning victor) be enforced to kiss That which it hates (the fire.) And can this Ram, This Antoninus-Engine, being made ready To so much mischief, keep a steady motion, His eyes and feet you see give strange assaults. I'm turned a marble Statue at thy language, Which printed is in such crabbed Characters, It puzzles all my reading, what (i'th' name Of Pluto) now is hatching. This Macrinus The time is, upon which love errands run Twixt Antoninus and that ghost of women, The bloodless Dorothea, who in prayer And meditation (mocking all your gods) Drinks up her ruby colour, yet Antoninus Plays the Endymion to this pale faced Moon, Courts her, seeks to catch her eyes. And what of this? These are but creeping Billows Not got to shore yet, but if Dorothea Fall on his bosom, and be fired with love, (Your coldest women do so) had you ink Brewed from the infernal Styx, and not all that blackness Can make a thing so foul, as the Dishonours, Disgraces, Buffetings, and most base affronts Upon the bright Artemia, Star of Court, Great Caesar's Daughter. I now construe thee. Nay more, a Firmament of Clouds being filled With jovet Artillery, shot down at once To pash your Gods in pieces, cannot give With all those thunderbolts so deep a blow To the Religion there, and Pagan lore As this; for Dorothea hates your gods, And if she once blast Antoninus' soul, Making it foul like hers: Oh the example— Eats through Caesarea's heart, like liquid poison Have I invented tortures to tent Christians, To see but which, could all that sceles hell's torments Have leave to stand aloof here on earth's stage, They would be mad till they again descended, Holding the pains most horrid, of such souls, May-games to those of mine, has this my hand Set down a Christian's execution In such dire postures, that the very hangman Fell at my foot dead hearing but their figures, And shall Macrinus and his fellow Masquer Strangle me in a dance. No, on, I do hug thee, For drilling thy quick brains in this rich plot Of tortures 'gainst these Christians: on, I hug thee. Both hug and holy me, to this Dorothea Fly thou and I in thunder.
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)
What peece Of this State-wheele (which winds vp Antoninus) Is broke, it runnes so iarringly? the Man is from himselfe deuided: Oh thou the eye By which I wonders see, tell me my Harpax, What gad flye tickles so this Macrinus, That vp. flinging thy tayle, he breakes thus from me, Oh Sir, his braine-panne is a bed of Snakes, Whosestings shoote through his eye-balls, whose poysonous spawne Ingenders such a fry of speckled villanies, That valesse charmes more strong then Adamant Bee vs'd, the Romane Angels wings shall melt, And Caesars Diadem be from his head Spurn'd by base fecte, the Lawrell which he weares (Returning victor) be inforc't to kisse That which it hates (the fire.) And can this Ram, This Antoninus-Engine, being made ready To so much mischiefe, keepe a steady motion, His eyes and feete you see giue strange assaults. I'm turnd a marble Statue at thy language, Which printed is in such crab'd Charracters, It puzzles all my reading, what (ith name Of Pluto) now is hatching. This Macrinus The time is, vpon which loue errands runne Twixt Antoninus and that ghost of women, The bloudlesse Dorothaea, who in prayer And meditation (mocking all your gods) Drinkes vp her ruby colour, yet Antoninus Playes the Endymion to this pale fac'd Moone, Courts her, seekes to catch her eyes. And what of this? These are but creeping Billowes Not got to shore yet, but if Dorothaea Fall on his bosome, and be fir'd with loue, (Your coldest women do so) had you ynck Brew'd from the infernall Stix, and not all that blacknesse Can make a thing so foule, as the Dishonours, Disgraces, Buffettings, and most base affronts Vpon the bright Artemia, Starre of Court, Great Caesars Daughter. I now conster thee. Nay more, a Firmament of Clouds being fild With Iouet Artillery, shot downe at once To pash your Godsin peeces, cannot giue With all those Thunderbots so deepe a blow To the Religion there, and Pagan lore As this; for Dorothea hates your gods, And if she once blast Antoninus soule, Making it foule like hers: Oh the example— Eates through Cesareas heart, like liquid poison Haue I inuented tortures to tente Christians, To see but which, could all that sceles Hels torments Haue leaue to stand aloofe heere on earths stage, They would be mad till they againe descended, Holding the paines most horrid, of such soules, May-games to those of mine, has this my hand Set downe a Christians execution In such dire postures, that the very hangman Fell at my foote dead hearing but their figures, And shall Macrinus and his fellow Masquer Strangle me in a dance. No, on, I do hug thee, For drilling thy quick braines in this rich plot Of tortures gainst these Christians: on, I hug thee. Both hug and holy me, to this Dorotheae Flye thou and I in thunder.