Rowley, William · published 1633 · first performed or written 1619 [c.1619-1620(?)] (Annals) tragedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) · Phoenix/Cockpit T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.80 · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
And so they do, For whilst I see thee kneeling, I think of my Iacinta. Say your Iacinta then (chaste as the Rose) Coming on sweetly in the springing bud, And ne'er felt heat, to spread the Summer sweet: But to increase and multiply it more, Did to itself keep in its own perfume: Say that some rapine hand had plucked the bloom, Iacinta like that flower, and ravished her, Defiling her white lawn of chastity, With ugly blacks of lust; what would you do? O 'tis too hard a question to resolve, Without a solemn Council held within Of man's best understanding faculties: There must be love, and fatherhood, and grief, And rage, and many passions, and they must all Beget a thing called vengeance; but they must sit upon't. Say this were done by him that carried The fairest seeming face of friendship to yourself. We should fall out. Would you in such a case respect degrees? I know not that. Say he were noble. Impossible: th'acts ignoble, the Bee can breed No poison, though it suck the juice of hemlock. Say a king should do 't? 'Twereth' art less done By the greater power, does Majesty extenuate a crime: Augment it rather. Say then that Roderick, your king and Master, To quit the honours you are bringing home, Had ravished your Iacinta. Who has sent A fury in this foul-fair shape to vex me? I ha' seen that face methinks, yet know it not: How darest thou speak this treason, 'gainst my king? Durst any man i'th' world, bring me this lie, By this, had been in hell; Roderick a Tarquin? Yes, and thy daughter (had she done her part) Should be the second Lucrece: view me well, I am Iacinta. Ha? The king my ravisher. The king thy ravisher! oh unkingly sound: He dares not sure, yet in thy sullied eyes I read a Tragic story. O noble friends, Our wars are ended, are they not? They are Sir. But Spain has now begun a civil war. And to confound me only: see you my daughter? She sounds the Trumpet, which draws forth my sword To be revenged. On whom? speak loud your wrongs, Digest your choler into temperance: Give your considerate thoughts the upper hand, In your hot passions, 'twill assuage the swelling Of your big heart; if you have injuries done you, Revenge them, and we second you. Father, dear father. Daughter, dear daughter. Why do you kneel to me Sir? To ask thee pardon that I did beget thee, I brought thee to a shame stains all the way Twixt earth and Acheron: not all the clouds (The skies large canopy) could they drowne the S With a perpetual inundation, Can wash it ever out, leave me I pray. His fighting passions will be over anon, And all will be at peace.
nodes 1497–1565 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 25 of 33 in this edition
Length
479 words · 663 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.798 (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)
And so they do, For whilst I see thee kneeling, I thinke of my Iacinta. Say your Iacinta then (chast as the Rose) Comming on sweetly in the springing bud, And ne're felt heat, to spread the Sommer sweet: But to increase and multiply it more, Did to it selfe keepe in its owne perfue: Say that some rapine hand had pluckt the bloome, Iacinta like that flower, and ravisht her, Defiling her white lawne of chastity, With ugly blacks of lust; what would you do? O tis too hard a question to resolve, Without a solemne Councell held within Of mans best understanding faculties: There must be love, and fatherhood, and griefe, And rage, and many passions, and they must all Beget a thing call'd vengeance; but they must sit upon't. Say this were don by him that carried The fairest seeming face of friendship to your selfe. We should fall out. Would you in such a case respect degrees? I know not that. Say he were noble. Impossible: th'acts ignoble, the Bee can breed No poyson, though it sucke the iuyce of hemlocke. Say a king should doo' were th' lesse done By the greater power, does Maiesty extenuate a crime: Augment it rather. Say then that Rodricke, your king and Master, To quit the honours you are bringing home, Had ravisht your Iacinta. Who has sent A furie in this fowle-faire shape to vexe me? I ha seene that face me thinks, yet know it not: How darest thou speake this treason, gainst my king? Durst any man it world, bring me this lye, By this, had been in hell; Rodoricke a Tarquin? Yes, and thy daughter (had she done her part) Should be the second Lucrce: view me well, I am Iacinta. Ha? The king my ravisher. The king thy ravisher! oh unkingly sound: He dares not sure, yet in thy sullied eyes I reade a Tragicke story. O noble friends, Our warres are ended, are they not? They are Sir. But Spaine has now begun a civill warre. And to confound me onely: see you my daughter? She sounds the Trumpet, which draws forth my sword To be revengde. On whom? speake loud your wrongs, Digest your choller into temperance: Give your considerate thoughts the upper hand, In your hot passions, twill asswage the swelling Of your big heart; if you have iniuries done you, Revenge them, and we second you. Father, deare father. Daughter, deare daughter. Why do you kneele to me Sir? To aske thee pardon that I did beget thee, I brought thee to a shame staines all the way Twixt earth and Acheron: not all the clouds (The skies large canopy) could they drowne the S With a perpetuall inundation, Can wash it ever out, leave me I pray. His fighting passions will be ore anon, And all will be at peace.