Rowley, William · published 1633 · first performed or written 1619 [c.1619-1620(?)] (Annals) tragedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) · Phoenix/Cockpit T59 Spanish courts: war, honour and courtshi typicality 0.77 · 455 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
Nor give thee living in captivity, Thy body shall enjoy the general prison. But thy soul set free. Thou art good in th, and no. Nay it shall nobler be in the performance, Give him weapons, thou art a soldier, And shalt end so; Ile be thy opp, With odds of eyes, but not of arms, I vow, If thy dark aim hit in my face, I'll stand, And die with thee, if not, fall by my hand. Thou'lt hurt my penitence, for I shall bless All the ill deeds that I have done for thee, In this so noble end, B pr then. One thing more of thee, be a prophet to me first, For thou know'st what shall become of my poor Iacinta, What end to her is fated. Before thy end thou shalt know it. O it noble be, and honourable; Her life has had too many strokes of sorrows; Oh let her end be spg. It shall be noble too. I beg for her that has no tongue to beg, And what remains my saint yielding breath, Shall all be spent in blessings over thee: Farewell Iacinta, take my latest blessing, I know thy soul returns a thanks to me, Make haste to overtake me, if thou be'st stayed, Think of Cleopatra and Brutus' wife, There's many ways to end a weary life. Come Sir, I stand before you. Thur I come, Thy death I'll venture, but receive mine own, So, I have my doom, and I have hit too. Ha, ha, ha, Laughest then any ed then. O bloody homicide, thou hast slain thy daughter. False villain, hast thou then so mocked my woes, To make me fatal butcher of my child? W she the target to defend thy body? Forgive me my Iacinta, 'twas in me An innocent act of blood, but tyranny In that black monster: 'tis not much ill, Better my hand then a worse arm should spill Thy guiltless life; what art thou going yet? Thy warm blood cools, my sun begins to set, Nature shrinks backward to her former forms, Our souls climb stars, whilst these descend to worms. See tyrant, from thy further strokes we fly, Heaven do thy will, I will not cursing die. So, now we live beholding unto none Upon this stair we do ascend our throne, Give us our title. Long live Mullimumen King of Spain. Your silence it confirms, take hence their bodies, Give them to Christians, and let them bestow What ceremonious funerals they please. We must pursue the flying R. All must be ours, we'll have no Kingdom sharer, Let Chroniclers write, here we begin our reign, The first of Moores that e'er was King of Spain.
seed 43: T61 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Nor give thee living in captivity, Thy body shall enjoy the generall prison. But thy soule set . Thou art good in th, and no. Nay it shall nobler e in the perfor, Give him weapons, thou art a soldier, And shalt end so; Ile be thy opp, With od of eyes, but not of armes, I vow, If thy darke ayme hit in my face, Ile stand, And die with thee, if not, fall by my hand. Thoul't hurt my penence, for I shall blesse All the ill deeds I have done for thee, In this so noble end, B pr then. One thing more of , be a prophet to me first, For thou know'st what shall become of my poore Iacinta, What end to her . end thou know it. O it noble be, and honourable; Her life has had strokes of ; Oh let her end be spg. shall be noble too. I for her that has no tongue to beg, And what my saint yeelding breath, Shall all be spent in blessings over thee: Farewell Iacinta, take my latest blessing, I know thy soule returnes a thanks to me, Make haste to overtake me, if thou beest stayd, Thinke of Clpatra and Brutus wife, There's many wayes to end a weary life. Come Sir, I stand before you. Thur I come, Thy death Ile venter, but receive mine owne, So, I have my doome, and I have hit too. Ha, ha, ha, Laughest then any ed then. O bloody homicde, thou hast slaine thy daughter. False villaine, hast thou then so mockt my woes, To make me fatall butcher of my child? W she the target to defend thy body? Forgive me my Iacinta, 'twas in me An innocent act of blood, but tyranny In that black monster: 'tis not much ill, Better my hand then a worse arme should spill Thy guiltlesse life; what art thou going yet? Thy warme blood cooles, my sunne begins to set, Nature shrinkes backward to her former formes, Our soules climbe stars, whilst these descend to wormes. See tyrant, from thy further strokes we fly, Heaven do thy will, I will not cursing die. So, now we live beholding unto none Vpon this stayre we do ascend our thro, Give us our title. Long live Mulli King of Spaine. Your silence it confirmes, take hence their bodies, Give them to Christians, and let th bestow What ceremonious sunerals they please. We must pursue the flying R. All must be ours, weele have no Kingdome sher, Let Chroniclers write, here we begin our raigne, The first of Moores that re was King of Spaine.