Middleton, Thomas · published 1630 · first performed or written 1613 (Annals) comedy · Lady Elizabeth's Men · Swan unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 516 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O my vengeance, let me for ever hide my cursed Face From sight of those that darkens all my hopes, And stands between me and the sight of Heaven, Who sees me now, ho to and those so near me, May rightly say, I am o'ergrown with sin, O how my offences wrestle with my repentance, It hath scarce breath, Still my adulterous guilt hovers aloft, And with her black Wings beats down all my prayers. Ere they be half way up, what's he knows now, How long I have to live? o what comes then, My taste grows bitter, the round World, all Gall now, Her pleasing pleasures now hath poisoned me, Which I exchanged my Soul for, Make way a hundred sighs at once for me. Speak to him nick. I dare not, I am afraid. Tell him he hurts his wounds What, with making moan. Wretched, death of seven. Come let's be talking somewhat to keep him alive Ah sira Wat, and did my Lord bestow that jewel on thee, For an Epistle thou mad'st in Latin, Thou art a good forward Boy, there's great joy on thee. O sorrow! Heart will nothing comfort him? If he be so far gone, 'tis time to moan, Here's Pen, and Ink, and Paper, and all things ready, will't please your Worship for to make your Will? My Will? Yes, yes, what else? Who writes apace now? That can your man Davy an't like your Worship, A fair, fast, legible Hand. Set it down then: Inprimis, I bequeath to yonder Wittol, Three times his weight in Curses, How? All Plagues of Body and of Mind, Write them not down Davy. It is his Will, I must. Together also, With such a Sickness, ten days ere his Death. There's a sweet Legacy, I am almost choked with't. Next I bequeath to that foul whore his Wife, All barrenness of joy, a drought of Virtue, And dearth of all repentance: For her end, The common misery of an English Strumpet, In French and Dutch, beholding ere she dies Confusion of her Brats before her Eyes, And never shed a tear for it. Where's the Knight? O Sir, the Gentleman you wounded, is newly departed. Dead? Lift, lift, Who helps me? Let the Law lift you now, that must have all, I have done lifting on you, and my Wife too. You were best lock yourself close. Not in my House Sir, I'll harbour no such persons as Men-slayers, Lock yourself where you will. What's this? Why Husband. I know what I do Wife. You cannot tell yet, For having killed the Man in his defence, Neither his Life, nor estate will be touched Husband. Away Wife, hear a Fool, his Lands will hang him. Am I denied a Chamber? What say you forsooth? Alas Sir, I am one that would have all well, But must obey my Husband. Prithee Love Let the poor Gentleman stay, being so sore wounded, There's a close Chamber at one end of the Garret We never use, let him have that I prithee.
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)
O my vengeance, let me for euer hide my curſed Face From ſight of thoſe that darkens all my hopes, And ſtands betweene me and the ſight of Heauen, Who ſees me now, ho to and thoſe ſo neere me, May rightly ſay, I am o're-growne with ſinne, O how my offences wraſtle with my repentance, It hath ſcarce breath, Still my adulterous guilt houers aloft, And with her blacke Wings beats downe all my prayers. Ere they be halfe way vp, what's he knowes now, How long I haue to liue? ô what comes then, My taſt growes bitter, the round World, all Gall now, Her pleaſing pleaſures now hath poyſon'd me, Which I exchang'd my Soule for, Make way a hundred ſighes at once for me. Speake to him Nicke. I dare not, I am afraid. Tell him he hurts his wounds Wat, with making moane. Wretched, death of ſeauen. Come let's be talking ſomewhat to keepe him aliue Ah ſira Wat, and did my Lord beſtow that Iewell on thee, For an Epiſtle thou mad'ſt in Latine, Thou art a good forward Boy, there's great ioy on thee. O ſorrow! Heart will nothing comfort him? If he be ſo farre gone, 'tis time to moane, Here's Pen, and Incke, and Paper, and all things ready, Wil't pleaſe your Worſhip for to make your Will? My Will? Yes, yes, what elſe? Who writes apace now? That can your man Dauy an't like your Worſhip, A faire, faſt, legible Hand. Set it downe then: Inprimis, I bequeath to yonder Witall, Three times his weight in Curſes, How? All Plagues of Body and of Mind, Write them not downe Dauy. It is his Will, I muſt. Together alſo, With ſuch a Sickneſſe, ten dayes ere his Death. There's a ſweet Legacie, I am almoſt choak't with't. Next I bequeath to that foule whore his Wife, All barrenneſſe of Ioy, a drouth of Vertue, And dearth of all repentance: For her end, The common miſerie of an Engliſh Strumpet, In French and Duch, beholding ere ſhe dyes Confuſion of her Brats before her Eyes, And neuer ſhed a teare for it. Where's the Knight? O Sir, the Gentleman you wounded, is newly departed. Dead? Lift, lift, Who helpes me? Let the Law lift you now, that muſt haue all, I haue done lifting on you, and my Wife too. You were beſt locke your ſelfe cloſe. Not in my Houſe Sir, I'le harbour no ſuch perſons as Men-ſlayers, Locke your ſelfe where you will. What's this? Why Husband. I know what I doe Wife. You cannot tell yet, For hauing kild the Man in his defence, Neither his Life, nor eſtate will be touch't Husband. Away Wife, heare a Foole, his Lands will hang him. Am I deny'd a Chamber? What ſay you forſooth? Alas Sir, I am one that would haue all well, But muſt obey my Husband. Prethee Loue Let the poore Gentleman ſtay, being ſo ſore wounded, There's a cloſe Chamber at one end of the Garret We neuer vſe, let him haue that I prethee.