Randolph, Thomas · published 1632 · first performed or written 1632 [Mar 20] (Annals) comedy · before the Court T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.77 · 484 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Learn of us Captains to outface grim death, And gaze the lean-chapped monster in the face. ay, and I could but come to see his face, I'd scratch his eyes out.— O the ugly Rogue! Could none but Tyndarus and fair Techmessa Serve the vile varlet to lead apes in hell? I have seen thousands sigh out souls in groans And yet have laughed:— it has been sport to see, A mangled carcase broached with so many wounds That life has been in doubt which to get out at. Are crawling vermin of so choice a diet? Would I were then a worm, freely to feed On such a delicate and Ambrosian dish: Fit to be served a banquet to my bed! But O— Techmessa death has swallowed thee, Too sweet a sop for such a fiend as he. Chase hence these showers, for since they both were dead, Tears will not bribe the fates for a new thread. Inexorable sisters,— Be not sorry: For Clotho's distaff will be peremptory! Go then, and dip your pens in gall and vinegar To rail on Mors, cruel— impartial Mors: The savage Tyrant— all-devouring Mors: The envious, wicked, and malicious Mors: Mors that respects not valour, Mors that cares not For wit or learning, Mors that spares not honour: Mors whom wealth bribes not, Mors whom beauty tempts not. Thus loudly rail on Mors, that Mors may know it To be revenged on Mors I keep a Poet. If Mors were here, the Skeleton should know I'd cut his charnel bones to dice, for grieving Our noble General— Courage bon chevalier! WHy is my boy so sad?— Tell me Asotus: If dissolved gold will cure thee, melt a Treasure. O sad mischance! What grieves my hope— my joy. My staff, my comfort? Woeful accident! Have I not barricadoed all my doors, And stopped each chink and cranny in my house, To keep out poverty and lean misfortune? Where crept this sorrow in? Here, through my heart. O father, I will tell you such a story Of such a sad and lamentable nature, 'Twill crack your purse-strings. Ha? what story, boy? My friend, my dear friend Tyndarus, Sir, is dead. And, to augment my sorrow,— killed himself. And yet to add more to my heap of griefs, Left me and Ballio— his estate— Alas! Is not this counterfeit sorrow well expressed? But I grieve truly that I grieve in jests Half his estate to thee, and half to Ballio? A thousand pities.— Gently rest his bones. I cannot but weep with thee. Sir, you see If you had left him nothing, my instructions Can draw in patrimonies. He is rich In nothing but a Tutor.— Good Asotus, Though sorrow be a debt due to the hearse Of a dead friend, and we must wet the turf Under whose roof he lodges: yet we must not Be too immoderate.
nodes 2023–2088 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 31 of 47 in this edition
Length
484 words · 675 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.765 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Learn of us Captains to outface grimme death, And gaze the lean-chapt monster in the face. I, and I could but come to see his face, I'de scratch his eyes out.—O the ugly Rogue! Could none but Tyndarus and fair Techmessa Serve the vile varlet to lead apes in hell? I have seen thousands sigh out souls in grones And yet have laugh'd:—it has been sport to see, A mangled carcasse broach'd with so many wounds That life has been in doubt which to get out at. Are crawling vermine of so choice a diet? Would I were then a worm, freely to feed On such a delicate and Ambrosian dish: Fit to be serv'd a banquet to my bed! But O—Techmessa death has swallowed thee, Too sweet a sop for such a fiend as he. Chase hence these showres, for since they both were dead, Teares will not bribe the fates for a new thread. Inexorable sisters, —Be not sorry: For Clotho's distaffe will be peremptory! Go then, and dip your pens in gall and vineger To rail on Mors, cruel —impartiall Mors: The salvage Tyrant—all-devouring Mors: The envious, wicked, and malicious Mors: Mors that respects not valour, Mors that cares not For wit or learning, Mors that spares not honour: Mors whom wealth bribes not, Mors whom beauty tempts not. Thus loudly rail on Mors, that Mors may know it To be reveng'd on Mors I keep a Poet. If Mors were here, the Skeleton should know I'de cut his charnell bones to dice, for grieving Our noble Generall—Courage bon chevalier! WHy is my boy so sad?—Tell me Asotus: If dissolv'd gold will cure thee, melt a Treasure. O sad mischance! What grieves my hope—my joy. My staff, my comfort? Wofull accident! Have I not barricadoed all my doores, And stop't each chink and cranny in my house, To keep out poverty and lean misfortune? Where crept this sorrow in? Here, through my heart. O father, I will tell you such a story Of such a sad and lamentable nature, 'Twill crack your purse-strings. Ha? what story, boy? My friend, my deare friend Tyndarus, Sir, is dead. —And, to augment my sorrow,—kill'd himself. And yet to adde more to my heap of griefs, Left me and Ballio—his estate— Alas! Is not this counterfeit sorrow well exprest? But I grieve truely that I grieve in jests Half his estate to thee, and half to Ballio? A thousand pities. —Gently rest his bones. I cannot but weep with thee. Sir, you see If you had left him nothing, my instructions Can draw in patrimonies. He is rich In nothing but a Tutour. —Good Asotus, Though sorrow be a debt due to the herse Of a dead friend, and we must wet the turf Under whose roof he lodges: yet we must not Be too immoderate.