Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip · published 1632 · first performed or written 1619 [1617-1619] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.85 · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Heaven take mercy Upon your soul them it must leave your body. Now free mine eyes, I dare unmoved look on her. And fortify my sentence, with strong reasons. Since that the politic law provides that servants, To whose care we commit our goods shall die, If they abuse our trust: what can you look for, To whose charge this most hopeful Lord gave up All he received from his brave Ancestors, Or he could leave to his posterity? His Honour, wicked woman, in whose safety All this life's joys, and comforts were locked up, With thy lust, a thief hath now stolen from him, And therefore— Stay, just judge, may not what's lost By her own fault, (for I am charitable, And charge her not with many) be forgotten In her fair life hereafter? Never, Sir. The wrong that's done to the chaste married bed, Repentant tears can never expiate, And be assured, to pardon such a sin, s an offence as great as to commit it. I may not then forgive her. Nor she hope it. Nor can she wish to live no sun shall rise, But ere it set, shall show her ugly lust In a new shape, and every on more horrid: Nay, even those prayers, which with such humble fervour She seems to send up yonder, are beat back, And all suits, which her penitence can proffer, As soon as made, are with contempt thrown Off all the courts of mercy. Let her die then. Better prepared I am. Sure I could not take her, Nor she accuse her father, as a judge Partial against her. I approve his sentence, And kiss the executioner: my lust Is now run from me in that blood in which It was begot and nourished. Is she dead then? Yes, sir, this is her heart blood, is it not? I think it be. And you have killed her? True, and did it by your doom But I pronounced it As a judge only, and friend to justice, And zealous in defence of your wronged honour, Broke all the ties of nature: and cast off The love and soft affection of a father. I in your cause, put on a Scarlet robe Of red died cruelty, but in return, You have advanced for me no flag of mercy: I looked on you, as a wronged husband, but You closed your eyes against me, as a father. O Beaumelle, my daughter. This is madness. Keep from me— could not one good thought rise up, To tell you that she was my age's comfort, Begot by a weak man, and borne a woman, And could not therefore, but partake of frailty? Or wherefore did not thankfulness step forth, To urge my many merits, which I may Object unto you, since you prove ungrateful, Flinty-hearted Charaloys? Nature does prevail above your virtue.
nodes 2171–2237 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 34 of 42 in this edition
Length
479 words · 612 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.849 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Heauen take mercy Vpon your soule them it must leaue your body. Now free mine eyes, I dare vnmou'd looke on her. And fortifie my sentence, with strong reasons. Since that the politique law prouides that seruants, To whose care we commit our goods shall die, If they abuse or trust: what can you looke for, To whose charge this most hopefull Lord gaue vp All hee receiu'd from his braue Ancestors, Or he could leaue to his posterity? His Honour, wicked woman, in whose safety All this lifes ioyes, and comforts were locked vp, With thy lust, a theefe hath now stolne from him, And therefore— Stay, iust Iudge, may not what's lost By her owne fault, (for I am charitable, And charge her not with many) be forgotten In her faire life hereafter? Neuer, Sir. The wrong that's done to the chaste married bed, Repentant teares can neuer expiate, And be assured, to pardon such a sinne, s an offence as great as to commit it. I may not then forgiue her. Nor she hope it. Nor can shee wish to liue no sunne shall rise, But ere it set, shall shew her vgly lust In a new shape, and euery on more horrid: Nay, euen those prayers, which with such humble feruor She seemes to send vp yonder, are beate backe, And all suites, which her penitence can proffer, As soone as made, are with contempt throwne Off all the courts of mercy. Let her die then. Better prepar'd I am. Sure I could not take her, Nor she accuse her father, as a Iudge Partiall against her. I approue his sentence, And kisse the executioner: my lust Is now run from me in that blood in which It was begot and nourished. Is she dead then? Yes, sir, this is her heart blood, is it not? I thinke it be. And you haue kild her? True, and did it by your doome But I pronounc'd it As a Iudge onely, and friend to iustice, And zalous in defence of your wrong'd honour, Broke all the tyes of nature and cast off The loue and soft affection of a father. I in your cause, put on a Scalet robe Of red died cruelty, but in returne, You haue aduanc'd for me no flag of mercy: I look'd on you, as a wrong'd husband, but You clos'd your eyes against me, as a father. O Beaumelle, my daughter. This is madnesse. Keep from me—could not one good thought rise vp, To tell you that she was my ages comfort, Begot by a weake man, and borne a woman, And could not therefore, but partake of frailety? Or wherefore did not thankfulnesse step forth, To vrge my many merits, which I may Obiect vnto you, since you proue vngratefull, Flinty-hearted Charaloys? Nature does preuaile aboue your vertue.