The Raging Turk, or Bajazet the Second · chunk 40 of 51
Goffe, Thomas · published 1631 · first performed or written 1618 [c.1613-c.1618] (Annals) tragedy · at University unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Nor this nor that I'll favour, may I 〈◊〉 Baiazet shall live to see both bleed. Mask up thy brightness Phoebus, lovely night, Hurl thy thick mantle over all the heavens, Let this black day for ever be forgot In the eternal registers of time: Which of you sacred powers are not ashamed To see a Prince so sinfully abused By his own issue and unrevenged. But stand we, who comes here? a face of brass. Else would it blush: now thou Saturnine Ioue, Thou God of great men, thunder that the world Drenched all in sin, may shake and fear the noise That horrid scourge of villainies. Father? Slave Avaunt: ● feele a strong Antipathy Twixt thee and me, thy sight makes my dead heart Distil fresh drops of blood, and work new smart. What furious Baiazet, and raging hot? I hug the amorous pleasure that I feel Creep through my joints: observe our Father, Else by some wilful murder he'll prevent My purposed project, I'd not lose the guilt Of his destruction for a crown: heaven knows I love him better than to let him dig Himself a grave, whilst I may take the pains. Now mount my soul, and let my soaring plumes Brush the smooth surface of the Azure sky. With this I charm obeysance from the world: Thou golden counterfeit of all the heavens: See how the shining stars in careless ranks Grace the composure; and the beauteous Moon Holds her irregular motion at the height Of the four poles; this is a complete heaven, And thus I wear it: but me thinks 'tis fixed But weakly on my brow, whilst there yet breath Any whose envy once reflect on it, And those are three: the angry Bajazet, Puling Corcutus, proud Achomates: One of these three is cared for, that's Corcutus Who ere the blushing morn salutes the Sun, Shall be dispatched by two most hideous slaves, Whom I have bred a purpose to the fact: The other rival, wise Achomates, I'll bear aside by force of men and arms, Which ready Mustered, but attend the stroke, Then attend our Fathers. Here's one deals for him, Shall send him quick to hell. It is decreed. He that makes lesser greatness soon shall bleed, Hamon draw near, most welcome my dear Hamon, What guess of your patient Bajazet? Is he all healthful? No my gracious Prince. Neither his body nor his mind is free From miserable anguish. A sad case. Hamon I love him, and would rid him from't. Were I so skilled in naturals as you. All that my art can work to cure his grief Shall be applied. Unapprehending fool: I must speak broader. Hamon is he ill In mind and body both? Exceeding ill. Then should I think him happier in his death, Then in so hateful life and so weak breath. And that's the readier way to cure his ill. (H'as found me now) but Hamon can thy Art Reach to the cure?
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)
Nor this nor that I'le fauour, may I Baiazt shall liue to see both bleed. Maske vp thy brightnesse Phabus, louely night, Hurle thy thick mantle ouer all the heauens, Let this black day for euer be forgot In the eternall registers of time: Which of you sacred powers are not asham'd To see a Prince so sinfully abus'd By his owne issue and vnreueng'd. But stand we, who comes here? a face of brasse. Else would it blush: now thou Saturnine Ioue, Thou God of great men, thunder that the world Drench'd all in sinne, may shake and feare the noyse That horrid scourge of villanies. Father? Slaue Auaunt: feele a strong Antipathy T'wixt thee and me, thy sight makes my dead heart Distill fresh drops of bloud, and worke new smart. What furious Baiazt, and raging hot? I hugge the amorous pleasure that I feele Creepe through y ioynts: obserue our Father, Else by some wilfull murder hee'le preuent My purpos'd proiect, I'de not loose the guilt Of his destruction for a crowne: heauen knowes I loue him better then to let him digge Himselfe a graue, whilst I may take the paines. Now mount my soule, and let my soaring plumes Brush the smooth surface of the Azure skie. With this I charme obeyfance from the world: Thou golden counterfeit of all the heauens: See how the shining starres in carlsse ranks Grace the composure; and the beauteous Moone Holds her irregular motion at the height Of the foure poles; this is a compleat heauen, And thus I weare it: but me thinks 'tis fixt But weakely on my brow, whilst there yet breath Any whose enuie once reflect on it, And those are three: the angry Baiazet, Puling Corcutus, proud Achomates: One of these three is car'd for, that's Corcutus Who ere the blushing morne salutes the Sunne, Shall be dispatcht by two most hideous slaues, Whom I haue bred a purpose to the fact: The other riuall, wise Achomates, I'le beare aside by force of men and armes, Which ready Mustred, but attend the stroke, Then attend our Fathers. Here's one deales for him, Shall send him quick to hell. It is decreed. He that makes lesser greatnesse soone shall bleed, Hamon draw neere, most welcome my deare Hamon, What guesse of your patient Baiazet? Is he all healthfull? No my gracious Prince. Neither his body nor his minde is free From miserable anguish. A sad case. Hamon I loue him, and would rid him from't. Were I so skil'd in naturalls as you. All that my art can worke to cure his griefe Shall be applied. Vnapprehending foole: I must speake broader. Hamon is he ill In minde and body both? Exceeding ill. Then should I thinke him happier in his death, Then in so hatefull life and so weake breath. And that's the readier way to cure his ill. (H'as found me now) but Hamon can thy Art Reach to the cure?