Gomersall, Robert · published 1633 · first performed or written 1628 [1622-1628] (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 504 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
SForza, you are undone. Why my Ascanio? Fortune is fearful of so foul a crime. You durst be bad, and yet improvident, And so it is not Fortunes, but your crime. Which shall I first begin to blame? your fault Or (pardon if I call it) Foolishness: I faint to think, that you are past excuse, Both with the honest and the Politic. Come nearer, my dear Cardinal, and tell In easier terms what 'tis that troubles you: Is Galeazzo's death divulged? It is: The time, the manner, and the murderer, Nor am I free from th' imputation. You speak what you suspect, not what is true, Does speech come from the dead? can their dried nerves Borrow a tongue for accusation? This is no other than the voice of Gild, The speech of our home-executioner: And yet I fear— and yet what should I fear? Blood hath strange organs to discourse withal, It is a clamorous Orator, and then Even nature will exceed herself to tell A crime so thwarting Nature My good Lord, Pardon the zeal of my intrusion, I bring hid danger with me: 'twas my chance As I was passing to the bedchamber, Just at the door to find this muffled man, Waiting some treacherous opportunity. Each circumstance swelled with suspicion, The place, the time, the person, all did seem To bear a danger worthy of your fear, At least your wiser disquisition. Thou art all goodness, and deserv'st of us Beyond the niggardly reward of thanks: But what are you that thus becloud your face, Who not unlike that over-bashfull fowl, Delight in darkness? Ha! Vitellio! The wonder is resolved by a new wonder. Sforza I live: do ye stare? I live: these words Are not the fond delusions of the Air, As you officiously would gull yourself; But from a solid substance, had not we Been by your diligent spy too soon surprised, Before our projects full maturity. Thy death more fully should have proved my life Fool that I was, who thought to take thy life By that which nourished it: there's none so mad Would poison Serpents, I'll work surely now. Once more Iletry your immortality. Strangle the Monster. 'Twas a doubtful chance within this hour who first should own those words But, Tyrant, weary thy invention To find variety of punishment, Yet all that thou canst do, exceeds not this A pin could do as much: weak, silly Sforza. All thou canst do to me exceeds not that Which I did on the person of thy Prince: Disease would prove a better murderer. Stop that malignant throat.— O my Ascanio, Thus must they toil which work an height by blood, How I could wish an innocent descent To new subjection? how I hate that wish! How scorn all thoughts that have not danger in them! Get us more Remora's, sweet Cardinal, Or rather than to droop to Idleness, we'll work to be no Prince, ourself recalling: In rising, most, some wit there is in falling.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
SForza, you are undone. Why my Ascanio? Fortune is fearefull of so foule a crime. You durst be bad, and yet improvident, And so it is not Fortunes, but your crime. Which shall I first beginne to blame? your fault Or (pardon if I call it) Foolishnesse: I faint to thinke, that you are past excuse, Both with the honest and the Politicke. Come neerer, my deare Cardinall, and tell In easier termes what tis that troubles you: Is Galeazzo's death divulg'd? It is: The time, the manner, and the murtherer, Nor am I free from th' imputation. You speake what you suspect, not what is true, Dos speech come frō the dead? can their dry'd nerves Borrow a tongue for accusation? This is no other then the voice of Guilt, The speech of our home-executioner: And yet I feare— and yet what should I feare? Bloud hath strange organs to discourse withall, It is a clamorous Oratour, and then Even nature wil exceed her self to tell A crime so thwarting Nature My good Lord, Pardon the zeale of my intrusion, I bring hid danger with me: 'twas my chance As I was passing to the bedchamber, Iust at the doore to finde this muffled man, Waiting some trecherous opportunity. Each circumstance swell'd with suspition, The place, the time, the person, all did seeme To beare a danger worthy of your feare, At least your wiser disquisition. Thou art all goodnesse, and deserv'st of us Beyond the niggardly reward of thankes: But what are you that thus becloud your face, Who not unlike that over-bashfull fowle, Delight in darknesse? Ha! Vitellio! The wonder is resolv'd by a new wonder. Sforza I live: doe ye stare? I live: these words Are not the fond delusions of the Ayre, As you officiously would gull your selfe; But from a solid substance, had not we Bin by your diligēt spy too soon surpriz'd, Before our projects full maturity. Thy death more fully should have prov'd my life Foole that I was, who thought to take thy life By that which nourisht it: there's none so mad Would poyson Serpents, Ile worke surely now. Once more Iletry your immortality. Strangle the Monster. 'Twas a doubtfull chance within this houre who first should own those words But, Tyrant, weary thy invention To finde variety of punishment, Yet all that thou canst doe, exceeds not this A pinne could doe as much: weake, silly Sforza. All thou canst doe to me exceeds not that Which I did on the person of thy Prince: Disease would prove a better murtherer. Stop that malignant throat. — O my Ascanio, Thus must they toyle wch work an hight by bloud, How I could wish an innocent descent To new subjection? how I hate that wish! How scorne all thoughts that have not danger in them! Get us more Remora's, sweet Cardinall, Or rather then to droope to Idlenesse, Wee'll worke to be no Prince, our selfe re-calling: In rising, most, some wit there is in falling.