A New Wonder, A Woman Never Vexed · chunk 38 of 45
Heywood, Thomas / Rowley, William · published 1632 · first performed or written 1611 [1611-1614] (Annals) comedy · Unknown T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.80 · 509 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O, at what crevice then hath comfort Like a Sunbeam crept? for all the doors And windows are of Iron, and barred to keep Her out; I had a limb cut from my body Dear to me as life; I had a son and brother too; Oh grief, they both would give me poison first In gold, before their hollow palms ten Drops should hold of nature's drink, cold water, But to save my life one minute; whence Should pity come, when my best friends do. Beat it from this room. No matter Sir, since you have good meat set Before you, never ask who sent it; if heaven Provide for you, and make the fowls of the Air your. Cators, feed you fat, and be thankful, And so I leave you. The Keeper is your friend, and powers true balm Into your smarting wounds; therefore dear Husband endure the dressing with patience. O wife, my losses are as numberless as the Sea's sands that swallowed them. And shall I in reckoning them, my sad griefs multiply? You may Sir, but your dim eyes so thick with tears do run. You cannot see from whence your comforts come, Besides your debts being truly counted cannot Be great. But all my wealth and state lies in the Sea's Bottom. It again may rise. Oh never. Good Sir, so hope, for I from heaven espy An arm to pluck you from this misery. Sir, there's one without desires to speak with you. Go send him in; none comes to do me good My wealth is lost, now let them take my blood. Ha? what art thou? Call for the Keeper there And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up. O 'tis your son, Sir. I know him not: I am no King, unless of scorn and woe, Why kneel'st thou then; why dost thou mock me so? O my dear father, hither am I come Not like a threatning storm to increase your wrack For I would take all sorrows from your back To lay them all on my own. Rise mischief, rise, away and get thee gone. O if I be thus hateful to your eye I will depart, and wish I soon may die; Yet let your blessing, Sir, but fall on me. My heart still hates thee. Sweet husband. Get you both gone; That misery takes some rest that dwells alone; Away thou villain. Heaven can tell, ache but your finger, I to make it Well, would cut my hand off. Hang thee, hang thee. Husband. Destruction meet thee, turn the key there ho. Good Sir: I'm gone, I will not stay to grieve you: Oh knew you (for your woes) what pains I feel, You would not scorn me so. See Sir, to cool Your heat of burning sorrow I have got Two hundred pounds and glad it is my lot To lay it down, with reverence at your feet; No comfort in the world to me is sweet, Whilst thus you live in moan.
nodes 2284–2349 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 38 of 45 in this edition
Length
509 words · 633 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.796 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O, at what crevice then hath comfort Like a Sun-beame crept? for all the doores And windowes are of Iron, and barr'd to keepe Her out; I had a limbe cut from my body Deare to me as life; I had a son and brother too; Oh griefe, they both would give me poyson first In gold, before their hollow palmes ten Drops should hold of natures drinke, cold water, But to save my life one minute; whence Should pitty come, when my best friends doe. Beate it from this roome. No matter Sir, since you have good meat set Before you, never aske who sent it; if heaven Provide for you, and make the fowles of the Ayre your. Cators, feed you fat, and be thankefull, And so I leave you. The Keeper is your friend, and powres true balme Into your smarting wounds; therefore deare Husband endure the dressing with patience. O wife, my losses are as numberlesse as the Sea's sands that swallowed them. And shall I in reckoning them, my sad griefes multiply? You may Sir, but your dim eyes so thick with teares doe run. You cannot see from whence your comforts come, Besides your debts being truly counted cannot Be great. But all my wealth and state lyes in the seas Bottome. It againe may rise. Oh never. Good Sir, so hope, for I from heaven espy An arme to plucke you from this misery. Sir, there's one without desires to speake with you. Goe send him in; none comes to doe me good My wealth is lost, now let them take my blood. Ha? what art thou? Call for the Keeper there And thrust him out of doores, or locke me up. O 'tis your son, Sir. I know him not: I am no King, unlesse of scorne and woe, Why kneel'st thou then; why dost thou mock me so? O my deare father, hither am I come Not like a threatning storme to encrease your wrack For I would take all sorrowes from your backe To lay them all on my owne. Rise mischiefe, rise, away and get thee gone. O if I be thus hatefull to your eye I will depart, and wish I soone may dye; Yet let your blessing, Sir, but fall on me. My heart still hates thee. Sweet husband. Get you both gon; That misery takes some rest that dwells alone; Away thou villaine. Heaven can tell, ake but your finger, I to make it Well, would cut my hand off. Hang thee, hang thee. Husband. Destruction meete thee, turne the key there ho. Good Sir: I'm gone, I will not stay to grieve you: Oh knew you (for your woes) what paines I feele, You would not scorne me so. See Sir, to coole Your heate of burning sorrow I have got Two hundred pounds and glad it is my lot To lay it downe, with reverence at your feete; No comfort in the world to me is sweet, Whil'st thus you live in moane.