Vulgar words in Bussy D'Ambois and The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois (Page 1)
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_Gui._ Th'art not nobly borne, But bastard to the Cardinall of Ambois.
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I think thee, then, a man That dares as much as a wilde horse or tyger, 440 As headstrong and as bloody; and to feed The ravenous wolfe of thy most caniball valour (Rather than not employ it) thou would'st turne Hackster to any whore, slave to a Jew, Or English usurer, to force possessions 445 (And cut mens throats) of morgaged estates; Or thou would'st tire thee like a tinkers strumpet, And murther market folks; quarrell with sheepe, And runne as mad as Ajax; serve a butcher; Doe any thing but killing of the King.
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450 That in thy valour th'art like other naturalls That have strange gifts in nature, but no soule Diffus'd quite through, to make them of a peece, But stop at humours, that are more absurd, Childish and villanous than that hackster, whore, 455 Slave, cut-throat, tinkers bitch, compar'd before; And in those humours would'st envie, betray, Slander, blaspheme, change each houre a religion, Doe any thing, but killing of the King: That in thy valour (which is still the dunghill, 460 To which hath reference all filth in thy house) Th'art more ridiculous and vaine-glorious Than any mountibank, and impudent Than any painted bawd; which not to sooth, And glorifie thee like a Jupiter Hammon, 465 Thou eat'st thy heart in vinegar, and thy gall Turns all thy blood to poyson, which is cause Of that toad-poole that stands in thy complexion, And makes thee with a cold and earthy moisture, (Which is the damme of putrifaction) 470 As plague to thy damn'd pride, rot as thou liv'st: To study calumnies and treacheries; To thy friends slaughters like a scrich-owle sing, And to all mischiefes--but to kill the King.
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_Fri._ It is a damn'd work to pursue those secrets 30 That would ope more sinne, and prove springs of slaughter; Nor is't a path for Christian feet to tread, But out of all way to the health of soules; A sinne impossible to be forgiven, Which he that dares commit-- _Mont._ Good father, cease your terrors.
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Now, Torture, use _Ent[er] Servants._ This other engine on th'habituate powers 145 Of her thrice damn'd and whorish fortitude: Use the most madding paines in her that ever Thy venoms sok'd through, making most of death, That she may weigh her wrongs with them--and then Stand, vengeance, on thy steepest rock, a victor!
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Hee that strives t'invert The Universals course with his poore way, Not onely dust-like shivers with the sway, But crossing God in his great worke, all earth Beares not so cursed and so damn'd a birth.
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_Cler._ Some informer, Bloud-hound to mischiefe, usher to the hang-man, 95 Thirstie of honour for some huge state act, Perceiving me great with the worthy Guise, And he (I know not why) held dangerous, Made me the desperate organe of his danger, Onely with that poore colour: tis the common 100 And more then whore-like tricke of treacherie And vermine bred to rapine and to ruine, For which this fault is still to be accus'd; Since good acts faile, crafts and deceits are us'd.
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_Gui._ These are your Machevilian villaines, Your bastard Teucers, that, their mischiefes done, 50 Runne to your shield for shelter; Cacusses That cut their too large murtherous theveries To their dens length still.
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=antickes=, buffoons.