Gomersall, Robert · published 1633 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.83 · 492 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.
Welcome Vitellio, thy haste is welcome: Nay compliment with him, whom thou wouldst kill, Be free to us as we do know thee true. Speak, yet I need not bid thee, for thine eye Sparkles a joyful answer. Is it done? 'tis done my Lord, and now my Lord, 'tis told (That Galeazzo is no more a man) And with an even scruple, for to me The act's as easy as relation. Thou speakest true manhood: 'tis thy art alone That gives us certain honour: there are some Strive for Eternity with loss of life, At least with hazard of the loss of it, And think they are revenged when they are killed; These are our valiant duelists, and these Do bleed whilst we do conquer; heal their wounds, Whilst we receive none: then, at last, unfold (Man of deep Art, that canst prevent the Fates, And cut a thread, which they had thought to spun Forty years longer) thy wise mysteries. Thy constant, never failing stratagems, Which cause a death, without a fear of death, Here are some drugs, but of these some, not one But can command a life where ere it is, And ruinate the strongest workmanship That Heaven ere bragged to have composed of earth, Powders of speedy Fate, but above all The instruments, which make me near to death Of such endeared familiarity, This glass has nimblest operation: Whose liquor cast upon the face of man Strait dulls him to an everlasting sleep. Is this the liquor of Eternity? Then take thy Lethe, & go sleep for ever. I am deceived, or else this is the place, Which Sforza chooseth when he is alone. Yes, this is it. What Malatesta come? What Devil brought him hither? O cross stars! Be sudden, Sforza, now, or thou art lost: He must believe our guilt was accident. Speak my Vitellio, O tune thy lips. But to one syllable, but to one groan And I am satisfied, What sight is here? Vitellio dead, & Sforza turned a Mourner? Should thou die thus, how would thy name be soiled! For though I am as guiltless of thy death, As Innocence, or if there be a name That hath less being: yet the envious world Will quit cursed Fortune of so great a crime, And give it me: yet speak. I'm bold my Lord, To ask your Honour when this dismal chance First frighted Heaven? Now, Malatesta, now: When could unhappiness reign so, but now? As if he meant to be before his Lord, He had no sooner told the Prince must die, Bul he strait died. Then courage, my good Lord, Since it is thus, make the best use of it: For now you need not fear to be revealed, When one mouth's stopped, & th'other is your own. But since your last retirement, we have been Instructed by the speed of frequent Posts, Of the arrival of the King of France.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 262–328 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 5 of 33 in this edition
Length
492 words · 661 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.829 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
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)
Welcome Vitellio, thy hast is welcome: Nay complement with him, whō thou wouldst kill, Be free to us as we doe know thee true. Speak, yet I need not bid thee, for thine eye Sparkles a joyfull answer. Is it done? Tis done my Lord, and now my Lord, 'tis told (That Galeazzo is no more a man) And with an even scruple, for to me The act's as easie as relation. Thou speak'st true manhood: 'tis thy art alone That gives us certaine honour: there are some Strive for Aeternity with losse of life, At least with hazard of the losse of it, And think they are reveng'd when they are kill'd; These are our valiant duellists, and these Do bleed whilst we do cōquer; heale their wounds, Whilst we receive none: then, at last, unfold (Man of deepe Art, that canst prevent the Fates, And cut a thread, which they had thought to spun Forty yeares longer) thy wise mysteries. Thy constant, never failing stratagems, Which cause a death, without a feare of death, Here are some drugs, but of these some, not one But can command a life where ere it is, And ruinate the strongest workemanship That Heav'n ere brag'd to have compos'd of earth, Powders of speedy Fate, but above all The instruments, which make me neere to death Of such indear'd familiarity, This glasse has nimblest operation: Whose liquor cast upon the face of man Straight dulls him to an everlasting sleepe. Is this the liquor of Aeternitie? Then take thy Lethe, & goe sleep for ever. I am deceiv'd, or else this is the place, Which Sforza chooseth when he is alone. Yes, this is it. What Malatesta come? What Devill brought him hither? O crosse stars! Be sudden, Sforza, now, or thou art lost: He must beleeve our guilt was accidēt. Speake my Vitellio, O tune thy lips. But to one syllable, but to one groane And I am satisfi'd, What sight is here? Vitellio dead, & Sforza turn'd a Mourner? Should thou die thus, how would thy name be soyld! For though I am as guiltlesse of thy death, As Innocence, or if there be a name That hath lesse being: yet the envious world Will quit curst Fortune of so great a crime, And give it me: yet speake. I'me bold my Lord, To aske your Honor when this dismall chance First frighted Heav'n? Now, Malatesta, now: When could unhappinesse raigne so, but now? As if he meant to be before his Lord, He had no sooner told the Prince must die, Bul he straight dy'd. Then courage, my good Lord, Since it is thus, make the best use of it: For now you need not feare to be reveal'd, When one mouth's stopt, & th'other is your owne. But since your last retyrement, we have beene Instructed by the speed of frequent Poasts, Of the arrivall of the King of France.