Gomersall, Robert · published 1633 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.68 · 481 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.
I must once more be cruel, yet not I, This is the murder of Necessity: But what has he deserved, who has done nought But what we charged, & so performed our thought? Is Death due to Obedience? can this hand Yield to his Fate, that sealed to his command? Yet he, or I must perish: shall I see My life, my honour, my Eternity, Lie at his mercy, and be safe, so long As he is pleased to temper his rude tongue? Till he be drunk, or treacherous? I'll first Study amongst all actions, which is worst And overact it: though our former deed Was from ambition, this is yet from need: Death is too good reward for such a slave, And sure there is no blabbing in the grave. But here he comes: why are thy looks so grim? Why Malatesta, in thy furrowed face See I the signs of Anger, or of Grief? Command thy face to a more smiling form, That I may think thee pleased when thou dost tell What does displease thee. 'Twas a foolish dream, That stole my colour from my paler cheeks. Last night I saw Vitellio. And what? Canst thou fear shadows? Yes if shadows speak, If that their threatenings be substantial. From such a paper as your Highness holds, He forced me breath in Death. This Paper holds A strange perfume, of such a cunning virtue, That at a distance it scarce smells at all. And at the nose it gives the best of scents. Make the experiment: O! I am slain. Heavens what a stillness here is? what a death Of the whole man at once? the wand'ring eye Now finds a station, and the busy pulse Is now for ever idle: where's the tongue That but even now could say as much as this, When that the soul could prompt it? but even now Here was a thing could speak, and poison too, That knew more ways to kill, than ever Heaven Did to make man: and could his subtlety, That could give death, not know to keep out death? Fie, what a bulk it is, what a great lump Of nothing, that shall lose that nothing too? What a dead toy is Man, when his thin breath Flies to its kindred Air? o why at all Did Heaven bestow, or why at all bereave Man of this Vapour of Eternity? And must we one day be a stock like this, Fit only to enrich the greedy Earth, And fill an house of Death, perhaps before We see the Issue of another Plot? Must we lie subject to be trampled on, By some, perhaps not Politicians? Where's then our Wisdom? our deep Providence? Are they dirt too? o heavens! but if they are Or dirt, or nothing, I'll enjoy my fame. And rottenness shall seize me, not my name.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 729–791 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 12 of 33 in this edition
Length
481 words · 618 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.684 (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)
I must once more be cruell, yet not I, This is the murther of Necessity: But what has he deserv'd, who has done nought But what we charg'd, & so perform'd our thought? Is Death due to Obedience? can this hand Yeeld to his Fate, that seal'd to his command? Yet he, or I must perish: shall I see My life, my honor, my Aeternity, Lye at his mercy, and be safe, so long As he is pleas'd to temper his rude tongue? Till he be drunke, or treacherous? Ile first Study amongst all actions, which is worst And over-act it: though our former deed Was from ambition, this is yet from need: Death is too good reward for such a slave, And sure there is no blabbing in the grave. But here he comes: why are thy looks so grim? Why Malatesta, in thy furrow'd face See I the signes of Anger, or of Griefe? Command thy face to a more smiling forme, That I may think thee pleas'd when thou dost tell What does displease thee. 'Twas a foolish dreame, That stole my colour from my paler cheekes. Last night I saw Vitellio. And what? Canst thou feare shadowes? Yes if shadowes speake, If that their threatnings be substantiall. From such a paper as your Highnesse holds, He forc't me breath in Death. This Paper holds A strange perfume, of such a cunning vertue, That at a distance it scarce smels at all. And at the nose it gives the best of sents. Make the experiment: O! I am slaine. Heavens what a stilnesse here is? what a death Of the whole man at once? the wandring eye Now findes a station, and the busie pulse Is now for ever idle: where's the tongue That but ev'n now could say as much as this, When that the soule could prompt it? but e'en now Here was a thing could speake, and poyson too, That knew more wayes to kill, then ever Heav'n Did to make man: and could his subtlety, That could give death, not know to keep out death? Fye, what a bulke it is, what a great lumpe Of nothing, that shall lose that nothing too? What a dead toy is Man, when his thin breath Flyes to its kindred Ayre? ô why at all Did Heav'n bestow, or why at all bereave Man of this Vapour of Eternity? And must we one day be a stocke like this, Fit onely to inrich the greedy Earth, And fill an house of Death, perhaps before We see the Issue of another Plot? Must we lie subject to be trampled on, By some, perhaps not Politicians? Where's then our Wisedome? our deepe Providence? Are they durt too? ô heav'ns! but if they are Or durt, or nothing, Ile enjoy my fame. And rottennesse shall seize me, not my name.