Caesar and Pompey (The Wars of Caesar and Pompey) · chunk 34 of 34
Chapman, George · published 1631 · first performed or written 1605 [1602-1605; Act 2, sc. 1 written 1610-1611(?)] (Annals) tragedy · Unacted (?) · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T2 Roman politics: senate, consuls and civi · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
You may, you may; but shun the victor now, Who near is, and will make us all his slaves. He shall himself be mine first, and my slaves. Look, look in to my father, O (I fear) He is no sight for me to bear and live. O ruthful spectacle! He hath ripped his entrails. Search, search; they may be sound. They may, and are. Give leave, my Lord, that I may sew them up Being yet unperished. Stand off; now they are not. Have he my curse that my life's least part saves. Just men are only free, the rest are slaves. Mirror of men. The gods envied his goodness. Too late, too late; with all our haste. O Cato, All my late Conquest, and my life's whole acts, Most crowned, most beautified, are basted all With thy grave life's expiring in their scorn. Thy life was rule to all lives, and thy death (Thus forcibly despising life) the quench Of all life's glories. Unreclaimed man? How censures Brutus his stern father's fact? 'twas not well done. O censure not his acts; Who knew as well what fitted man, as all men. Your enemy's head great Caesar. Cursed monsters, Wound not mine eyes with it, nor in my camp Let any dare to view it; far as noblesse The den of barbarism flies, and bliss The bitterest curse of vexed and tyrannised nature, Transfer it from me. Borne the plagues of virtue How durst ye poison thus my thoughts? to torture Them with instant rapture. Sacred Caesar. Away with them; I vow by all my comforts, Who slack seems, or not fiery in my charge, Shall suffer with them. Out base murderers; Tortures, tortures for them: Cruel Caesar. Too mild with any torture. Let me crave The ease of my hate on their one cursed life. Good Brutus take it; O you cool the poison These villain's flaming poured upon my spleen To suffer with my loathings. If the blood Of every common Roman touched so near; Shall I confirm the false brand of my tyranny With being found a fautor of his murder Whom my dear Country choosed to fight for her? Your patience Sir, their tortures well will quit you: Let my slaves use, Sir, be your precedent. It shall, I swear: you do me infinite honour. O Cato, I envy thy death, since thou enviedst my glory to preserve thy life. Why fled his son and friend Statilius? So far I fly their hurt, that all my good Shall fly to their desires. And (for himself) My Lords and Citizens of Utica, His much renown of you, quit with your most. And by the sea, upon some eminent rock, Erect his sumptuous tomb; on which advance With all fit state his statue; whose right hand Let hold his sword, where, may to all times rest His bones as honoured as his soul is blessed.
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)
You may, you may; but ſhun the victor now, Who neare is, and will make vs all his ſlaues. He ſhall himſelfe be mine firſt, and my ſlaues. Looke, looke in to my father, O (I feare) He is no ſight for me to beare and liue. O ruthfull ſpectacle▪ He hath ript his entrals. Search, ſearch; they may be ſound. They may, and are. Giue leaue, my Lord, that I may ſew them vp Being yet vnperiſht. Stand off; now they are not. Haue he my curſe that my lifes leaſt part ſaues. Iuſt men are only free, the reſt are ſlaues. Myrror of men. The gods enuied his goodneſſe. Too late, too late; with all our haſte. O Cato, All my late Conqueſt, and my lifes whole acts, Moſt crownde, moſt beautified, are baſted all With thy graue lifes expiring in their ſcorne. Thy life was rule to all liues, and thy death (Thus forcibly deſpiſing life) the quench Of all liues glories. Vnreclaimed man? How cenſures Brutus his ſterne fathers fact? Twas not well done. O cenſure not his acts; Who knew as well what fitted man, as all men. Your enemies head great Caeſar. Curſed monſters, Wound not mine eyes with it, nor in my camp Let any dare to view it; farre as nobleſſe The den of barbariſme flies, and bliſſe The bittereſt curſe of vext and tyranniſde nature, Transferre it from me. Borne the plagues of virtue How durſt ye poyſon thus my thoughts? to torture Them with inſtant rapture. Sacred Caeſar. Away with them; I vow by all my comforts, Who ſlack ſeemes, or not fiery in my charge, Shall ſuffer with them. Out baſe murtherers; Tortures, tortures for them: Cruell Caeſar. Too milde with any torture. Let me craue The eaſe of my hate on their one curſt life. Good Brutus take it; O you coole the poyſon Theſe villaines flaming pou'rd vpon my ſpleen To ſuffer with my lothings. If the blood Of euery common Roman toucht ſo neare; Shall I confirme the falſe brand of my tyranny With being found a fautor of his murther Whom my deare Country chuſde to fight for her? Your patience Sir, their tortures well will quit you▪ Let my ſlaues vſe, Sir, be your preſident. It ſhall, I ſweare: you doe me infinite honor. O Cato, I enuy thy death, ſince thou Enuiedſt my glory to preſerue thy life. Why fled his ſonne and friend Statilius? So farre I fly their hurt, that all my good Shall fly to their deſires. And (for himſelfe) My Lords and Citizens of Vtica, His much renowne of you, quit with your moſt. And by the ſea, vpon ſome eminent rock, Erect his ſumptuous tombe; on which aduance With all fit ſtate his ſtatue; whoſe right hand Let hold his ſword, where, may to all times reſt His bones as honor'd as his ſoule is bleſt.