Gomersall, Robert · published 1633 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.69 · 484 words · other edition — not in the analysis
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 Isabel 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 Isabel, 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 Isabel, 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, these unclouded looks become my dear, And give me joy too. I must hunt to day 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 Galeazzo! O not Galeazzo! How has Man fled thee! how thy soul has fled thee! Only thy lineaments belly a Man. Thou hunt? alas 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 insnar'st thyself, sinfully fooled, Flattering thy Executioner, and so Dost nor 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?
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 0–63 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 1 of 33 in this edition
Length
484 words · 626 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.687 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
CAn horror have an auditory? can Man love the spectacle of ruin'd man? We fear'd we should have beene alone, that hence, The Actors should have beene the Audience. Are you not frighted yet? doe you not rise? Can that invite, which should dismay your eyes! We shew neer murthers, and in that degree Where Mariage is unlawfull, 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 deni'd thee?) Aske why thus long such a succession Of sorrow clogs my bosome, and does rob So much of Woman from me, as complaints. Aske why I doe not rave, teare my haire, thus, Create a griefe, whieh 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 object of her sport: Aske why I do 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 banckrout of a friendly teare, Doe 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 deare Sforza, ther's no joy But either past, or fleeting, and poore man Growes up 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 love, This smile expels it. Be it banisht farre, Aeternally, or to the yeares of Age. I, these unclouded lookes become my deare, And give me joy too. I must hunt to day With my deare vncle: O he is a man That alters all those fond relations, Which Nature gives, who in an vncles name Out loves a Father: I could praise him still, But that I stay too long from him: farewell. O Galeazzo! O not Galeazzo! How has Man fled thee! how thy soule has fled thee! Only thy lineaments bely a Man. Thou hunt? alas 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 insnar'st thy selfe, sinfully fool'd, Flattering thy Executioner, and so Dost nor prevent thy misery, nor yet know. I am return'd once more, before I'm gone, To see if thy fond griefe be not return'd; What joy is there in a forbidden griefe? What comfort in the eyes sad flux? once more Is it my fault gives you these teares?