Rowley, William · published 1633 · first performed or written 1619 [c.1619-1620(?)] (Annals) tragedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 478 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O that I could spit out the spider's bladder, Or the roads entrails into thee, to take part And mix with the diseases that thou hearst, And altogether choke thee, or that my tongue Were pointed with a fiery Pyramis To strike thee through, thou bundle of diseases, This store-house of some shaggy meteor, Some blazing fire shone o'er thy fatal birth, And laid up all her sad effects in that, Gouts, aches, dropsies, and a hundred more, For were not poison to thee natural, Thy own soul rottenness would strangle thee. Thou art a looser, and I do consider it, Thou hast lost a maidenhead, a shrewd crack: A flaw that will hardly be soldered again; Some there be that can pass away these counterfeits. For currant, as brass money may be taken For silver, yet it can never be the same, Nor restored to his first purity, this I consider. And bear, (but presume not too much to trouble The pool of my patience, it may rise soul) it may. O that thine eyes were worth the plucking out, Or thy base heart, the labour I should take In rending up thy bosom, I should but ope A vault to poison me (detested wretch) The hangman's man, basest degree of baseness, Thou liv'st upon the lees and dregs of lust, Thy soul is a hired hackney towards hell. O Iulianus, my much honoured father, How is thy simple faith deluded now! Thou hadst not so much thought of ill in thee, To breed a bad opinion of a villain, Tyrant, and ravisher; whilst thou art winning Renown and honour from Spain's enemies, Spain has dishonoured and imprisoned me: Thou understandest not this, unless the winds Upon their fleeting convey hear it thee, Some gentle vision tell thee in thy sleeps, And heaven instruct thee with a waking faith, True to believe thy slumbers; boil out my blood, And at the briny limbeck of mine eyes Distil my faculties; alone I'll tell My sorrows unto heaven, my curse to hell. And there I mix that wretch, from thence they rise, Oh whilst I look on him, I loathe mine eyes. But that I have some kinder purpose, I would not Be thus baited: I am given to the flesh as well As the king my Master, I have some hope to fte This dish after him; but 'tis yet too hot for me, It will cool, and then I will draw my blade, and have A flash at it: this woman's two edged tongue, And this burden of flesh that I bear about me, Hath made me so heavy, I must take a p. Cob, boy, Cob, page. Here Sir. There is some thing gone Into my ears, that troubles my brain, blow in Some music to fetch it out again. The best I can, my Lord.
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)
O that I could spit out the spiders bladder, Or the roads intrals into thee, to take part And mixe with the diseases that thou hearst, And altogether choke thee, or that my tongue Were pointed with a y Pyramis To strike thee through, thou bundle of diseases, This store-house of some shaggy meteor, Some bling fire shon o're thy birth, And laid up all her sad effects in that, Gout, aches, dropsies, and a hundred more, For were not to , Thy owne soule would strangle thee. Thou art a looser, and I do consider it, Thou hast lost a maydenhead, a shrewd cracke: A flaw that will hardly be soaderd againe; Some there be that can passe away these counterseits. For currant, as brasse money may be taken For silver, yet it can never be the same, Nor restorde to his first purity, this I consider. And beare, (but presume not too much to trouble The poole of my patience, it may rise soule) it may. O that thine eyes were worth the plucking out, Or thy base heart, the labour I should take In rending up thy bosome, I should but ope A vaule to poyson me (detested wretch) The hangmans man, basest degree of basenesse, Thou liv'st upon the lees and dregs of lust, Thy soule is a hyrde hackney towards hell. O Iulianus, my much honour'd father, How is thy simple faith deluded now! Thou hadst not so much thought of ill in thee, To breede a bad opinion of a villaine, Tyrant, and ravisher; whilst thou art winning Renowne and honour from Spaines enemies, Spaine has dishonour'd and imprisoned me: Thou understandst not this, unlesse the windes Vpon their fleeting convey heare it thee, Some gentle vision tell thee in thy sleepes, And heaven instruct thee with a waking faith, True to beleeve thy slumbers; boyle out my bloud, And at the briney limbecke of mine eyes Distill my faculties; alone I'le tell My sorrowes unto heaven, my curse to hell. And there mixe that wretch, from thence they rise, Oh whilst I looke on him, I loath mine eyes. But that I have some kinder purpose, I would not Be thus baited: I am given to the as well As the king my Master, I have some hope to fte This dish after him; but tis yet too hot for me, It will coole, and then I will draw my , have A flash at it: this womans two edgde tongue, And this burthen of flesh that I beare about me, Hath made me so heavy, I must take a p. Cob, boy, Cob, page. Here Sir. There is some thing gone Into my eares, that troubles my braine, blow in Some musique to fetch it out againe. The best I can, my Lord.