The Raging Turk, or Bajazet the Second · chunk 51 of 51
Goffe, Thomas · published 1631 · first performed or written 1618 [c.1613-c.1618] (Annals) tragedy · at University unassigned nearest T2 Roman politics: senate, consuls and civi · 519 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
Then shall they envy beasts, and wish to be Our jades, our Mules, Matrons shall strive to bring Into the hateful light abortive Brats; The Infants shall return, and the lean womb Shall be unto the Babes a sudden tomb. Then shall they hoard carcases, and strive Only to be rich in Funerals; I'd rejoice To see them stand like Screech-owls, gaping when Their Parents should expire, and bequeath To hell their wretched souls, to them their death. Long live great Soliman our noble Emperor. All this, and more than this I'll do, when peace Hath glutted our new greedy appetites, When it hath filled the veins of the Empire full With vigour, then lest too much blood should cause Armies of vices, not of men to kill us, And strength breed weakness in our too great Empire, Then, then, and only than we shall think good, With war to let the body politic blood, Mean time we'll think on our Father's Funeral: Oh, I could be an holy Epicure, In tears, and pleasing sighs, Oh I could now Refresh myself with sorrow, I could emblame Thy corpses with holy groans from putrefaction: Oh, I could powder up thy thirsty corpses With brinish tears, and wipe them off with kisses, And that I might more freely speak my grief, These eyes should be still silent Orators, Till blindness shut them up were I a woman: But I am Solyman, Emperor, the Turk, Blood shall be my tears, I'll think thee slain Amongst the Christians, and translate my grief To fury, every member of my body Shall execute the office of a weeping son. Thus in my tears an Argus will I be, My head, heart, hands, and all shall weep for or thee. Oh that the cruel Fates were half so mild As to drive streams of tears from forth the springs, Great sorrows have no leisure to complain, Lest ills vent forth, great griefs within remain: See Selimus, sometimes a fore-string instrument Feeding his Soldiers with sweet Harmony, Doth now tune nought to us but Lacrymy, Could not Aesculapius be found to tune His disagreeing elements treasons cracked The string which else an headache would untune. Every disease is a ragged fort To wear these strings asunder, treason did lend Death, which both age, and sickness did intend; What then remains, but that his Funeral rites With our Grandfather, Uncles be solemnised, That so black discord may be with them buried: But noble Selimus what Tomb shall I prepare For thy memorial? shall a heavy stone Press thy innocent ashes? Shall I confine Thy wand'ring ghost in some high marble prison? Or shall I hither fetch the flying I Tomb Of proud Mausolus the rich Carian King? No; Religion shall cloak no such injury, No hired Rhetoric shall adorn thy coarse, No prattling stone shall trumpet forth thy praise, The world's thy tomb, thy Epitaph I'll carve In Funerals, destruction is the book In which we'll write thy annals, blood's the Ink, Our sword the Pen; A Tragedy I intent, Which with a Plangity, no Plaudity shall end.
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)
Then shall they enuie beasts, and wish to be Our Iades, our Mules, Matrons shall striue to bring Into the hatefull light abortiue Brats; The Infants shall returne, and the leane wombe Shall be vnto the Babes a suddaine tombe. Then shall they hoard carcasses, and striue Onely to be rich in Funerals; I'de reioyce To see them stand like Screech-Owles, gaping when Their Parents should expire, and bequeath To hell their wretched soules, to them their death. Long liue great Solymon our noble Emperour. All this, and more then this I'le doe, when peace Hath glutted our new greedy appetites, VVhen it hath fill'd the veines of the Empire full With vigour, then lest too much blood should cause Armies of vices, not of men to kill vs, And strength breed weaknesse in our too great Empire, Then, then, and onely then we shall thinke good, With warre to let the body politick blood, Meane time we'le thinke on our Fathers Funerall: Oh, I could be an holy Epicure, In teares, and pleasing sighes, Oh I could now Refresh my selfe with sorrow, I could emblame Thy corpes with holy groanes from putrifaction: Oh, I could powder vp thy thirsty corpes With brinish teares, and wipe them off with kisses, And that I might more freely speake my griefe, These eyes should be still silent Orators, Till blindnesse shut them vp were I a woman: But I am Solyman, Emperour, the Turke, Blood shall be my teares, I'le thinke thee slaine Amongst the Christians, and translate my griefe To fury, euery member of my body Shall execute the office of a weeping sonne. Thus in my teares an Argus will I bee, My head, heart, hands, and all shall weepe or thee. Oh that the cruell Fates were halfe so milde As to driue streames of teares from forth the springs, Great sorrowes haue no leasure to complaine, Least ills vent forth, great griefes within remaine: See Selymus, sometimes a fore-string instrument Feeding his Souldiers wth sweet Harmony, Doth now tune nought to vs but Lacrymy, Could n' Aesculapius be found to tune His disagreeing elements treasons crackt The string which else an headach would vntune. Euery disease is a ragged fort To weare these strings asunder, treason did lend Death, which both age, and sicknesse did intend; What then remaines, but that his Funerall rites With our Grandfather, Vncles be solemnized, That so black discord may be with them buried: But noble Selymus what Tombe shall I prepare For thy memoriall? shall a heauy stone Presse thy innocent ashes? Shall I confine Thy wandring ghost in some high marble prison? Or shall I hither fetch the flying I mbe Of proud Mausolus the rich Carian King? No; Religion shall cloake no such iniurie, No hired Rhethorick shall adorne thy coarse, No pratling stone shall trumpet forth thy praise, The world's thy tombe, thy Epitaph I'le caue In Funerals, destruction is the booke In which we'le write thy annalls, blood's the Inke, Our sword the Pen; A Tragedy I intend, Which with a Plangity, no Plaudity shall end.