Digital Renaissance Editions

About this text

  • Title: The Whore of Babylon (Quarto, 1607)
  • Editors: Frances E. Dolan, Anna Pruitt

  • Copyright Digital Renaissance Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: Thomas Dekker
    Editors: Frances E. Dolan, Anna Pruitt
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Whore of Babylon (Quarto, 1607)

    The Whore of Babylon.
    Tita. How now? what strucke thee downe? thy lookes are wilde:
    Why was thine armed hand reard to his height?
    What blacke worke art thou doing?
    Pari. Of damnation vpon my selfe; Tita: How?
    2480 Pari: Your wordes haue split my heart in thowsand shiuers,
    Heere, heere that stickes which I feare will not out
    Better to die than liue suspected. Had not your bright eyes
    Turnd backe vpon me, I had long ere this
    Layen at your feete a bloudie sacrifice.
    2485 Tyta. Staind Altars please not vs: why doe st thou weepe?
    Thou mak' st my good thoughts of thee now declyne,
    Who loues not his owne bloud, will ne're spare mine,
    Why doe st thou weepe?
    Pari. When on your face I looke,
    2490Me thinkes I see those Vertues drawne aliue
    Which did in Elfilyne the seauenth suruiue,
    (Your fathers father, and your grandfather,)
    And then that you should take me for a serpent
    Gnawing the branches of that glorious tree,
    2495The griefe melts euen my soule, O pardon me.
    Tita. Contract thy spirits togither, be compos'd;
    Take a full man into thee, for beholde
    All these blacke clowdes we cleere: looke vp, tis day,
    The sunne shines on thee still: weel'e reade: away---
    2500 Pari. O machle s s e; im'e all poyson, and yet she
    Turnes all to goodnes by wise tempering me. Goes off.
    Tita. If thou prou' st copper---well; this makes vs strong
    As towers of flint. All traytors are but waues,
    That beate at rockes, their owne blowes digge their graues.
    2505 Paridell manet.
    Pari. For not dooing am I damde: how are my spirits
    Halde, tortured, and growne wilde? on leaues eternall
    Vowes haue I writ so deepe, so bound them vp,
    So texted them in characters capitall,
    2510I cannot race them but I blot my name
    Out of the booke of sence: mine oath stands filde
    On your court-roles. Then keepe it, vp to heauen