Webster, John · published 1623 · first performed or written 1614 [1612-1614; revised 1617-23(?)] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour · 504 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit on thy Forehead (clad in grey hairs) twenty years sooner, than on a Merry milk maids. Thou sleep'st worse, than if a mouse Should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear: A little infant, that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee, would Cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. I am Duchess of Malfi still. That makes thy sleeps so broken: " Glories (like glowworms) afar off, shine bright, But looked to near, have neither heat, nor light. Thou art very plain. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living I am a tomb-maker. And thou com'st to make my tomb? Yes. Let me be a little merry, Of what stuff wilt thou make it? Nay, resolve me first, of what fashion? Why, do we grow fantastical in our deathbed? Do we affect fashion in the grave? Most ambitiously: Princes images on their tombs, Do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray, Up to heaven: but with their hands under their cheeks, (As if they died of the toothache) they are not carved With their eyes, fixed upon the stars; but as their Minds were wholly bent upon the world, The selfsame way they seem to turn their faces. Let me know fully therefore the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk, fit for a charnel? Now, I shall, Here is a present from your Princely brothers, And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. Let me see it, I have so much obedience, in my blood, I wish it in their veins, to do them good. This is your last presence Chamber. O my sweet Lady. Peace, it affrights not me. I am the common Bellman, That usually is sent to condemned persons The night before they suffer: even now thou saidst, Thou wast a tomb-maker? 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification: Listen. Hark, now every thing is still, The screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our Dame, aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud: Much you had of Land and rent, Your length in clay's now competent. A long war, disturbed your mind, Here your perfect peace is signed, Of what is't, fools make such vain keeping? Sin their conception, their birth, weeping: Their life, a general mist of error, Their death, a hideous storm of terror, Strew your hair, with powders sweet: Don clean linen, bathe your feet, And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless your neck, 'Tis now full tide, 'tween night, and day, End your groan, and come away. Hence villains, tyrants, murderers: alas! What will you do with my Lady? call for help. To whom, to our next neighbours? they are mad-folks. Remove that noise. Farewell Cariola, In my last will, I have not much to give A many hungry guests, have fed upon me, Thine will be a poor reversion.
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)
Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit on thy Fore-head (clad in gray haires) twenty yeares sooner, then on a Merry milke mydes. Thou sleep'st worse, then if a mouse Should be forc'd to take vp her lodging in a cats eare: A little infant, that breedes it's teeth, should it lie with thee, would Crie out, as if thou wert the more vnquiet bed-fellow. I am Duchesse of Malfy still. That makes thy sleepes so broken: "Glories (like glowe-wormes) a farre off, shine bright, But look'd to neere, haue neither heate, nor light. Thou art very plaine. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the liuing I am a tombe-maker. And thou com'st to make my tombe? Yes. Let me be a little merry, Of what stuffe wilt thou make it? Nay, resolue me first, of what fashion? Why, do we grow phantasticall in our death-bed? Do we affect fashion in the graue? Most ambitiously: Princes images on their tombes, Do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray, Vp to heauen: but with their hands vnder their cheekes, (As if they died of the tooth-ache) they are not carued With their eies, fix'd vpon the starres; but as their Mindes were wholy bent vpon the world, The selfe-same way they seeme to turne their faces. Let me know fully therefore the effect Of this thy dismall preparation, This talke, fit for a charnell? Now, I shall, Here is a present from your Princely brothers, And may it arriue wel-come, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. Let me see it, I haue so much obedience, in my blood, I wish it in ther veines, to do them good. This is your last presence Chamber. O my sweete Lady. Peace, it affrights not me. I am the common Bell-man, That vsually is sent to condemn'd persons▪ The night before they suffer: Euen now thou said'st, Thou wast a tombe-maker? 'Twas to bring you By degree to mortification: Listen. Hearke, now euery thing is still, The Schritch-Owle, and the whistler shrill, Call vpon our Dame, aloud, And bid her quickly don her shrowd: Much you had of Land and rent, Your length in clay's now competent. A long war, disturb'd your minde, Here your perfect peace is sign'd, Of what is't, fooles make such vaine keeping? Sin their conception, their birth, weeping: Their life, a generall mist of error, Their death, a hideous storme of terror, Strew your haire, with powders sweete: D'on cleane linnen, bath your feete, And (the foule feend more to checke) A crucifixe let blesse your necke, 'Tis now full tide, 'tweene night, and day, End your groane, and come away. Hence villaines, tyrants, murderers: alas! What will you do with my Lady? call for helpe. To whom, to our next neighbours? they are mad-folkes. Remooue that noyse. Farwell Cariola, In my last will, I haue not much to giue A many hungry guests, haue fed vpon me, Thine will be a poore reuersion.