Gomersall, Robert · published 1628 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.69 · 484 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
CAn horror have an auditory? can Man love the spectacle of ruined man? We feared we should have been alone, that hence, The Actors should have been the Audience. Are you not frighted yet? do you not rise? Can that invite, which should dismay your eyes? We show near murders, and in that degree Where Marriage is unlawful, then, the free Progress of crimes, by nimble justice met, equally horrid, this we show, but yet Unless your Courtesy, your judgement sway, We suffer a worse torture, than we play. WHy weeps my dear? Ask why I do not weep: (Poor Isabella are thy tears denied thee?) Ask why thus long such a succession Of sorrow clogs my bosom, and does rob So much of Woman from me, as complaints. Ask why I do not rave, tear my hair, thus, Create a grief, which Fate would spare me, than Cloud the sad Air with sighs, and at the last, With a bold stab take from insulting Fortune The miserable object of her sport: Ask why I do not this, not, why I weep. Or stint thy tears, or mingle them with mine By a relation of their cause: these eyes, Trust me, my Isabella, are not dry, Nor has strong sorrow ere exhausted them, To make them bankrupt of a friendly tear, Do thou but prove it once a friendly tear And not a fond one. Why, my Isabella, Why dost thou hasten those that come too fast, Sorrow, and Age? If it be true, I heard Of Sforza, my dear Sforza, there's no joy But either past, or fleeting, and poor man Grows up but to the experience of Grief, And then is truly past minority When he is past all happiness: My Lord, My sorrow dares not argue with your love, This smile expels it. Be it banished far, eternally, or to the years of Age. ay, those unclouded looks become my dear, And give me joy too. I must hunt today With my dear uncle: O he is a man That altars all those fond relations, Which Nature gives, who in an uncle's name Out loves a Father: I could praise him still, But that I stay too long from him: farewell. O Galeazzol O not Galeazzo! How has Man fled thee! how thy soul has fled thee! Only thy lineaments belly a Man. Thou hunt; alas as poor Prince, thou art the Game: Thy uncle hunts: and yet he does not neither, But stands a glad, and idle looker on, Whilst thou ensnarest thyself, sinfully fooled, Flattering thy Executioner, and so Dost not prevent thy misery, nor yet know. I am returned once more; before I'm gone, To see if thy fond grief be not returned; What joy is there in a forbidden grief? What comfort in the eyes sad flux? once more Is it my fault gives you these tears?
nodes 0–63 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 1 of 32 in this edition
Length
484 words · 627 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.694 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
CAn horror haue an auditory? can Man loue the spectacle of ruin'd man? We fear'd we ſhould haue beene alone, that hence, The Actors ſhould haue beene the Audience. Are you not frighted yet? do you not riſe? Can that inuite, which ſhould diſmay your eyes? We ſhew neer murthers, and in that degree Where Mariage is vnlawfull, then, the free Progreſſe of crimes, by nimble Iuſtice met, Aequally horrid, this we ſhew, but yet Vnleſſe your Courteſie, your Iudgement ſway, We ſuffer a worſe torture, then we play. WHy weeps my Deare? Aske why I do not weep: (Poore Iſabella are thy teares deny'd thee?) Aske why thus long ſuch a ſucceſſion Of ſorrow clogs my boſome, and does rob So much of Woman from mee, as complaints. Aske why I doe not raue, teare my haire, thus, Create a griefe, which Fate would ſpare me, then Cloud the ſad Ayre with ſighes, and at the laſt, With a bold ſtab take from inſulting Fortune The miſerable obiect of her ſport: Aske why I doe not this, not, why I weepe. Or ſtint thy teares, or mingle them with mine By a relation of their cauſe: theſe eyes, Truſt me, my Iſabella, are not dry, Nor has ſtrong ſorrow ere exhauſted them, To make them bankrout of a friendly teare, Doe thou but proue it once a friendly teare And not a fond one. Why, my Iſabella, Why doſt thou haſten thoſe that come too faſt, Sorrow, and Age? If it be true, I heard Of Sforza, my deare Sforza, ther's no ioy But either paſt, or fleeting, and poore man Growes vp but to the experience of Griefe, And then is truly paſt minority When he is paſt all happineſſe: My Lord, My ſorrow dares not argue with your loue, This ſmile expels it. Be it baniſht farre, Aeternally, or to the yeares of Age. I, thoſe vnclouded lookes become my deare, And giue me ioy too. I muſt hunt to day With my deare vncle: O he is a man That alters all thoſe fond relations, Which Nature giues, who in an vncles name Ou loues a Father: I could praiſe him ſtill, But that I ſtay too long from him: farewell. O Galeazzol O not Galeazzo! How has Man fled thee! how thy ſoule has fled thee! Onely thy lineaments bely a Man. Thou hunt; as poore Prince, thou art the Game: Thy vncle hunts: and yet he does not neither, But ſtands a glad, and idle looker on, Whilſt thou inſnarſt thy ſelfe, ſinfully fool'd, Flattering thy Executioner, and ſo Doſt no preuent thy miſery, nor yet know. I am return'd once more; before I'me gone, To ſee if thy fond griefe be not return'd; What ioy is there in a forbidden griefe? What comfort in the eyes ſad flux? once Is it my fault giues you theſe teares?