Marlowe, Christopher · published 1633 · first performed or written 1589 [c.1589-1590] (Annals) tragedy · Unknown · before the Court unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
Well, master, I go. Stay, first let me stir it Ithimore. As fatal be it to her as the draught Of which great Alexander drunk, and died: And with her let it work like Borgias wine, Whereof his sire, the Pope, was poisoned. In few, the blood of Hydra, Lerna's bane; The juice of Hebon, and Cocytus breath, And all the poisons of the Stygian pool Break from the fiery kingdom; and in this Vomit your venom, and envenom her That like a fiend hath left her father thus. What a blessing has he given't? was ever pot of Rice porridge so sauced? what shall I do with it? Oh my sweet Ithimore go set it down And come again so soon as thou hast done, For I have other business for thee. Here's a drench to poison a whole stable of Flanders mares: I'll carry't to the Nuns with a powder. And the horse pestilence to boot; away. I am gone. Pay me my wages for my work is done. I'll pay thee with a vengeance Ithimore. Welcome great Bashaws, how fares Calymath, What wind drives you thus into Malta rhode? The wind that bloweth all the world beside, Desire of gold. Desire of gold, great Sir? That's to be gotten in the Western Ind: In Malta are no golden Minerals. To you of Malta thus saith Calymath: The time you took for respite, is at hand, For the performance of your promise past; And for the Tribute-money I am sent. Bashaw, in brief, shalt have no tribute here, Nor shall the Heathens live upon our spoil: First will we raze the City walls ourselves, Lay waste the Island, hew the Temples down, And shipping of our goods to Sicily, Open an entrance for the wasteful sea, Whose billows beating the resistless banks, Shall overflow it with their refluence. Well, Governor, since thou hast broke the league By that denial of the promised Tribute, Talk not of racing down your City walls, You shall not need trouble yourselves so far, For Selim-Calymath shall come himself, And with brass-bullets batter down your Towers, And turn proud Malta to a wilderness For these intolerable wrongs of yours; And so farewell. Farewell: And now you men of Malta look about, And let's provide to welcome Calymath: Close your portcullis, charge your Basilisks, And as you profitably take up Arms, So now courageously encounter them; For by this Answer, broken is the league, And nought is to be looked for now but wars, And nought to us more welcome is then wars. Oh brother, brother, all the Nuns are sick, And Physic will not help them, they must die. The abbess sent for me to be confessed: Oh what a sad confession will there be? And so did fair Maria send for me: I'll to her lodging; hereabouts she lies. What, all dead save only Abigall? And I shall die too, for I feel death coming. Where is the Friar that conversed with me?
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)
Well, master, I goe. Stay, first let me stirre it Ithimore. As fatall be it to her as the draught Of which great Alexander drunke, and dyed: And with her let it worke like Borgias wine, Whereof his sire, the Pope, was poyson'd. In few, the blood of Hydra, Lerna's bane; The iouyce of Hebon, and Cocitus breath, And all the poysons of the Stygian poole Breake from the fiery kingdome; and in this Vomit your venome, and inuenome her That like a fiend hath left her father thus. What a blessing has he giu'nt? was euer pot of Rice porredge so sac't? what shall I doe with it? Oh my sweet Ithimore goe set it downe And come againe so soone as thou hast done, For I haue other businesse for thee. Here's a drench to poyson a whole stable of Flanders mares: I'le carry't to the Nuns with a powder. And the horse pestilence to boot; away. I am gone. Pay me my wages for my worke is done. Ile pay thee with a vengeance Ithamore. Welcome great Bashaws, how fares Cllymath, What wind drives you thus into Malta rhode? The wind that bloweth all the world besides, Desire of gold. Desire of gold, great Sir? That's to be gotten in the Westerne Inde: In Malta are no golden Minerals. To you of Malta thus saith Calymath: The time you tooke for respite, is at hand, For the performance of your promise past; And for the Tribute-mony I am sent. Bashaw, in briefe, shalt haue no tribute here, Nor shall the Heathens liue vpon our spoyle: First will we race the City wals our selues, Lay waste the Iland, hew the Temples downe, And shipping of our goods to Sicily, Open an entrance for the wastfull sea, Whose billowes beating the resistlesse bankes, Shall ouerflow it with their refluence. Well, Gouernor, since thou hast broke the league By at denyall of the promis'd Tribute, Talke not of racing downe your City wals, You shall not need trouble your selues so farre, For Selim-Calymath shall come himselfe, And with brasse-bullets batter downe your Towers, And turne proud Malta to a wildernesse For these intolerable wrongs of yours; And so farewell. Farewell: And now you men of Malta looke about, And let's prouide to welcome Calymath: Close your Port-cullise, charge your Basiliskes, And as you profitably take vp Armes, So now couragiously encounter them; For by this Answer, broken is the league, And nought is to be look'd for now but warres, And nought to vs more welcome is then wars. Oh brother, brother, all the Nuns are sicke, And Physicke will not helpe them, they must dye. The Abbasse sent for me to be conest: Oh what a sad confession will there be? And so did faire Maria send for me: I'le to her lodging; hereabouts she lyes. What, all dead saue onely Abigall? And I shall dye too, for I feele death comming. Where is the Fryar that conuerst with me?