Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T25: feare, kings, power, princes, lawes, loue, state, downe, honor, men.
Craft, peace! thou cuttest euery threed so thin, As it destroyes thy works ere they beginne. Thy cobwebs, like th' Astrologers thinne line, Fit for discourse, for vse are ouer-fine. Thy state is nothing else but change and feare, Weeds that no fruit, but fading blossomes beare, Cloth'd with pied colours of hypocrisie, Which like to all is, yet can nothing be. In you no soule findes stayres to rise withall, Descent to craft, change, feare, being naturall. When I propound in grosse, you minutes play, Which is the cause our Tragicke works thus stay. My wheeles goe on at once, thine restlesse pause; Of little works, with much adoe, the cause. You euen in Hala sometimes breed remorse, At least a doubt that euill hath no force. Thou makest Caine in vndertaking slow, Who must, to serue thy turne, like goodnesse show: Those Scenes still tedious are, those Acts too long, Where thy vnresolute Images be strong. For while you feare your true tormentor, Shame, I swallow all at once, with honors name. Then glory not: since where thy links excell, There we inlarge not, but contract our hell. Peace you base Subalterns! and striue no more, That but the Carriers be of my rich store. Perchance you thinke me th' obiect of you all, And so no Furie, but the Furies thrall: Where I giue forme, and stuffe to make you worse, And so become your Lord, and not your Nurse. I breake the banks of dutie, honor, faith; And subiect am to no power, but to death: Charge me; I grant, Delayes grow out of wit: And are not all your false webs wrought by it? To time I haue respect, to person, place; I crosse my selfe to giue my owne acts grace. I am Base to you all, and so the chiefe, Equall with truth, where I finde good beleefe. I beare the weight of feare, the rage of lust, With selfe-loue, enuy, malice, left in trust. I calme Mans windy pride, distempered rage, Giuing to each a shape for euery age. Wrong I attire in purple robes of might, That State may helpe it to be infinite. And who is fitter here to rule you all, Than I, that giue you being, by my fall? Know therfore all you shadow-louing Spirits! Who haue no being, but in mans demerits, That infinite desires, and finite power, At once, can neuer all mankinde deuoure. Though men be all ours, and all we but one; The vice yet cannot build, or stand alone. Be it mans weaknesse that doth interrupt, Or some power else that cannot be corrupt; Or be there what there may be else aboue, Which may, and will maintaine her owne by loue: Yet haue we scope enough to marre this State; And to the euer being, what is late?
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)
Craft, peace! thou cuttest euery threed so thin, As it destroyes thy works ere they beginne. Thy cobwebs, like th' Astrologers thinne line, Fit for discourse, for vse are ouer-fine. Thy state is nothing else but change and feare, Weeds that no fruit, but fading blossomes beare, Cloth'd with pied colours of hypocrisie, Which like to all is, yet can nothing be. In you no soule findes stayres to rise withall, Descent to craft, change, feare, being naturall. When I propound in grosse, you minutes play, Which is the cause our Tragicke works thus stay. My wheeles goe on at once, thine restlesse pause; Of little works, with much adoe, the cause. You euen in Hala sometimes breed remorse, At least a doubt that euill hath no force. Thou makest Caine in vndertaking slow, Who must, to serue thy turne, like goodnesse show: Those Scenes still tedious are, those Acts too long, Where thy vnresolute Images be strong. For while you feare your true tormentor, Shame, I swallow all at once, with honors name. Then glory not: since where thy links excell, There we inlarge not, but contract our hell. Peace you base Subalterns! and striue no more, That but the Carriers be of my rich store. Perchance you thinke me th' obiect of you all, And so no Furie, but the Furies thrall: Where I giue forme, and stuffe to make you worse, And so become your Lord, and not your Nurse. I breake the banks of dutie, honor, faith; And subiect am to no power, but to death: Charge me; I grant, Delayes grow out of wit: And are not all your false webs wrought by it? To time I haue respect, to person, place; I crosse my selfe to giue my owne acts grace. I am Base to you all, and so the chiefe, Equall with truth, where I finde good beleefe. I beare the weight of feare, the rage of lust, With selfe-loue, enuy, malice, left in trust. I calme Mans windy pride, distempered rage, Giuing to each a shape for euery age. Wrong I attire in purple robes of might, That State may helpe it to be infinite. And who is fitter here to rule you all, Than I, that giue you being, by my fall? Know therfore all you shadow-louing Spirits! Who haue no being, but in mans demerits, That infinite desires, and finite power, At once, can neuer all mankinde deuoure. Though men be all ours, and all we but one; The vice yet cannot build, or stand alone. Be it mans weaknesse that doth interrupt, Or some power else that cannot be corrupt; Or be there what there may be else aboue, Which may, and will maintaine her owne by loue: Yet haue we scope enough to marre this State; And to the euer being, what is late?