Hoffman, or A Revenge for a Father · chunk 27 of 39
Chettle, Henry · published 1631 · first performed or written 1602 [Dec 29, payment] (Annals) tragedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men · Phoenix/Cockpit T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.75 · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Art sure she is asleep! I cannot tell, be not too hasty. She stirs not, she is fast. Sleep sweet fair Duchess, for thou sleep'st thy last: Endymion's love, muffle in clouds thy face, And all ye yellow tapers of the heaven veil your clear brightness in Cimmerian mist; Let not one light my black deed beautify; For with one stroke virtue and honour dies. And yet we must not kill her in this kind: Weapons draw blood, blood shed will plainly prove The worthy Dutchess, worthless of this death Was murdered, and the guard are witnesses, None entered but ourselves. Then strangle her, here is a towel fit. Good: kneel and help, compass her neck about, Alas poor Lady thou sleep'st here secure And never dreamest of what thou shalt endure. Nay, good my Lord dispatch. What ruthless hind Shall I wrong nature that did ne'er compose One of her sex so perfect? prithee stay, Suppose we kill her thus about her neck, Circles of purple blood will change the hue Of this white porphyry and the red lines Mixed with a deadly black, will tell the world She died by violence, then 'twill be inquired And we held ever hateful for the act. Then place beneath her nostrils this small box Containing such a powder that hath power, Being set on fire to suffocate each sense Without the sight of wound, or show of wrong. That's excellent, fetch fire, or do not, stay: The candle shall suffice, yet that burns dim; And drops his waxen tears as if it mourned To be an agent in a deed so dark. Will you confound yourself by dotage speak, 'swounds i'll confound her, and she linger thus. Thou were't as good, and better,— note my words: Run unto the top of dreadful scar, And thence fall headlong on the under rocks, Or set, thy breast against a cannon fired, When iron death flies thence on flaming wings, Or with thy shoulders, Atlas like attempt, To bear the ruins of a falling tower, Or swim the Ocean; or run quick to hell; (as dead assure thyself no better place) Than once look frowning on this angel's face Confound her? black confusion be my grave Whisper one such word more, thou diest base slave. I have done, i'll honour her if you command. She stirs, and when she wakes observe me well, Sooth up whate'er, I say, touching Prince Otho. Prince Otho, is our son come? who's there Lorrique? What shall I answer her? whose's that thou talk'st with? The most indebted servant to your Grace Of any creature underneath the Moon. I prithee friend be brief, what is thy name? I know thee not, what business hast thou here? Art thou a messenger come from our son? If so acquaint us with the news thou bring'st. I saw your highness' son, Lorrique here knows, the last of any living. Living? heaven help, I trust my son h'as no commerce with death.
seed 43: T0 · seed 44: T0 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Art sure she is a sleepe! I cannot tell, be not too hasty. She stirs not, shee is fast. Sleepe sweet fayre Dutchesse, for thou sleep'st thy last: Endymions loue, muffle in cloudes thy face, And all ye yellow tapers of the heauen Vayle your cleare brightnes in Cimerian mistmis; Let not one light my blacke deed beautiste; For with one stroake vertue and honour dyes. And yet we must not kill her in this kind: Weapons draw blood, blood shed will plainely prooue The worthy Dntchesse, worthles of this death Was murdered, and the guard are witnesses, None enter'd but our selues. Then strangle her, here is a towell fit. Good: kneele and helpe, compasse her necke about, Alas poore Lady thou sleep'st here secure And neuer dream'st of what thou shalt endure. Nay, good my Lord dispatch. What ruthlesse hinde Shall I wrong nature that did ne're compose One of her sexe so perfect? prethee stay, Suppose we kill her thus about her necke, Circles of purple blood will change the hue Of this white porphirie and the red lines Mixt with a deadly blacke, will tell the world She dyed by violence, then t'will be inquir'd And we held euer hatefull for the act. Then place beneath her nostrils this small box Conteyning such a powder that hath power, Being set on fire to suffocate each sence Without the sight of wound, or shew of wrong. That's excellent, fetch fire, or doe not, stay: The candle shall suffice, yet that burnes dim; And drops his waxen teares as if it mourn'd To be an agent in a deed so darke. Will you confound your selfe by dotage speake, S'wounds ile confound her, and shee linger thus. Thou wer't as good, and better,—note my words: Run vnto the top of dreadfull scarre, And thence fall headlong on the vnder rocks, Or set, thy brest against a cannon fir'd, When iron death flies thence on flaming wings, Or with thy shoulders, Atlas like attempt, To beare the ruines of a falling tower, Or swim the Ocean; or run quicke to hell; (as dead assure thy selfe no better place) Then once looke frowning on this angells face Confound her? blacke confusion be my graue Whisper one such word more, thou dyest base slaue. I haue done, ile honor her if you command. She stirs, and when she wakes obserue me well, Sooth vp what ere, I say, touching Prince Otho. Prince Otho, is our son come? who's there Lorrique? What shall I answere her? Whose that thou talkst with? The most indebted seruant to your Grace Of any creature vnderneath the Moone. I prethee friend be briefe, what is thy name? I know thee not, what businesse hast thou here? Art thou a messenger come from our son? If so acquaint vs with the newes thou bring'st. I saw your Highnes son, Lorrique here knowes, the last of any liuing. Liuing? heauen helpe, I trust my son h'as no commerce with death.