Gomersall, Robert · published 1628 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.81 · 505 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Which I accept: but for no other end Then to revenge his death, base wretch, on thee: If that head be not planted there, 't shall off: You shall enjoy your Master's death. How's this? Is this a love-trick, Lady? I had thought After your thanks parted 'twixt heaven and me, You would with greediness have given yourself To him that gave you your desires: Fond thought! Dost think I'd love a man that kills a man? Make him my Prince, who hath dispatched his own Was Treason ever Preface unto Love? Hadst thou monopolized perfection, And shared a thousand Cupids in each eye: I would contemn the proudest of their shafts, And give thee only what is due, Disdain. You'll urge me to just vengeance? do you hear Madam ingratitude, quickly profess That this harsh language was but a wise bait To make him faster, who was sure before, Or I profess I'll join your death with his With thy loathed Sforza. I believe thee now, And trust me, so believe, that I could thank thee, I love thy cruelty, though not thy person. Hath death so little horror? well I'll do What shall enforce you to desire a death. This ponyards point shall naile thee to the t Struck through thy arms: where do not hope up A noble ravisher, my swarthy slaves, Slaves hated of their fellow Black a moor, Shall on thy honour's ruin tire then Lust, And kill thee in thy loathful suffering. What dare you struggle? A rape, a rape. O my good Lord you come in such a time As I could wish for, for this hour or more This wicked woman hath been wooing me, To murder your most sacred Majesty, And for reward hath promised me herself, Together with the Duchy: my good Lord, In detestation of such treachery, I gave her some harsh answers, with which moved, She used a woman's craft, and cried a Rape. Is this truth, Isabella; see, she's dumb: Have I then lived to have you seek my death? A cousin-traitor? yet you shall not die, Nor know another prison than my Court, I love to see my Murderer: O heavens! Why, should I fear to kill her? yet 'tis reason: Who is no true Prince, can ne'er punish treason. And I shall take you at your word, dear Sforza. IT cannot be, good Iulian, no more: I do not love these over-earnest dreams. The French invade us? when their jolly King With limber slaves does only mock a war, Which like so many reeds against a stone Punish their owne attempt with their owne r ▪ Breaking themselves, not armours: when we know The Court is lost in Masks, reality Is so far fled since the last victory, That we may think the Court itself a mask. Eternal Music, revels without end Tire the too-much delighted soldier, Whose arms have now forgot their ancient use, His spirits only active in his heels, And canst thou think they'll dance to Italy?
nodes 1350–1417 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 21 of 32 in this edition
Length
505 words · 671 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.812 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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)
Which I accept: but for no other end Then to reuenge his death, baſe wretch, on thee: If that head be not planted there, 't ſhall off: You ſhall inioy your Maſters death. How's this? Is this a loue-tricke, Lady? I had thought After your thankes parted twixt heau'n and me, You would with greedineſſe haue giu'n your ſelfe To him that gaue you your deſires: Fond thought! Doſt thinke Ide loue a man that kils a man? Make him my Prince, who hath diſpatcht his owne Was Treaſon euer Preface vnto Loue? Hadſt thou monopoliz'd perfection, And ſhar'd a thouſand Cupids in each eye: I would contemne the proudeſt of their ſhafts, And giue thee onely what is due, Diſdaine. Youle vrge me to iuſt vengeance? doe you heare Madam ingratitude, quickly profeſſe That this harſh language was but a wiſe baite To make him faſter, who was ſure before, Or I profeſſe Ile ioyne your death with his With thy loath'd Sforza. I beleeue thee now, And truſt me, ſo beleeue, that I could thanke thee, I loue thy cruelty, though not thy perſon. Hath death ſo little horror? well Ile doe What ſhall inforce you to deſire a death. This ponyards point ſhall naile thee to the t Strucke through thy armes: where doe not hope vp A noble rauiſhet, my ſwaty ſlaues, Slaues hated of their fellow Black a mores, Shall on thy Honors ruine tyre then Luſt, And kill thee in thy loathfull ſuffering. What dare you ſtruggle? A rape, a rape. O my good Lord you come in ſuch a time As I could wiſh for, for this houre or more This wicked woman hath beene wooing me, To murther your moſt ſacred Maieſty, And for reward hath promis'd me herſelfe, Together with the Duchy: my good Lord, In deteſtation of ſuch treachery, I gaue her ſome harſh anſwers, with which mou'd, She vs'd a womans craft, and cry'd a Rape. Is this truth, Iſabella; ſee, ſhee's dumbe: Haue I then liu'd to haue you ſeeke my death? A Coſin-Traitor? yet you ſhall not dy, Nor know another priſon then my Court, I loue to ſee my Murtherer: O heau'ns! Why, ſhould I feare to kill her? yet tis reaſon: Who is no true Prince, can ne'er puniſh treaſon. And I ſhall take you at your word, deare Sforza. IT cannot be, good Iulian, no more: I doe not loue theſe ouer-earneſt dreames. The French inuade vs? when their iolly King With limber ſlaues does onely mocke a warre, Which like ſo many reeds againſt a ſtone Puniſh their owne attempt with their owne r ▪ Breaking themſelues, no amors: when we The Court is loſt in Makes, reality Is ſo farre fled ſince the laſt victory, That we may thinke the Court it ſelfe a make▪ Aeternall Muſicke, reuells without end Tire the too-much delighted ſouldier, Whoſe armes haue now forgot their ancient vſe, His ſpirits onely actiue in his heeles, And canſt thou thinke theyle dance to Italy?