Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
As Frenchmen lose their hair: here was too hot staying for him. Get thou too from my sight, the Queen would see thee. Your gold, Sir. Go with Iudas and repent. So men hate whores after lust's heat is spent: I'm gone, Sir. Tell me true, is he dead? Dead. No matter; 'tis but morning of revenge, The Sunset shall be red and Tragical. Sin is a Raven creaking her own fall. Keep locked the door, and let none enter to us But who shares in our fortunes. Lock the doors. What entertainment did the King bestow Upon your letters and the Cardinals? With a devouring eye he read'em o'er, Swallowing our offers into his empty bosom, As gladly as the parched earth drinks healths Out of the cup of heaven. Little suspecting What dangers closely lie enambushed. Let not us trust to that; there's in his breast Both Fox and Lion, and both those beasts can bite: We must not now behold the narrowest loop-hole, But presently suspect a winged bullet Flies whizzing by our ears. For when I let The plummet fall to sound his very soul In his close-chamber, being French-Doctor like, He to the cardinal's ear sung sorcerous notes, The burden of his song, to mine, was death, Onaelia's murder, and Sebastian's; And think you his voice altars now? 'tis strange, To see how brave this Tyrant shows in Court, Throned like a god: great men are petty stars, Where his rays shine, wonder fills up all eyes By sight of him, let him but once check sin, About him round all cry, oh excellent King! Oh Saintlike man! but let this King retire Into his Closet to put off his robes, He like a Player leaves his part off too; Open his breast, and with a Sunbeam search it, There's no such man; this King of gilded clay, Within is ugliness, lust, treachery, And a base soul, though reared Colossus-high. None till he speaks, and that we know his voice: Who are you? An honest housekeeper in Rosemary-lane too, If you dwell in the same parish. Oh 'tis our honest Soldier, give him entrance. Men show like corses, for I meet few but are stuck with Rosemary: every one asked me who was married today, and I told 'em Adultery and Repentance, and that shame and a Hangman followed'em to Church. There's but two parts to play, shame has done hers, But execution must close up the Scane, And for that cause these sprigs are worn by all, Badges of Marriage, now of Funeral, For death this day turns Courtier Who must dance with him? The King, and all that are our opposites: That dart or This must fly into the Court Either to shoot this blazing star from Spain, Or else so long to wrap him up in clouds, Till all the fatal fires in him burn out, Leaving his State and conscience clear from doubt Of following uproars.
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)
As French-men lose their haire: here was too hot staying for him. Get thou too from my sight, the Queen wu'd see thee. Your gold, Sir. Goe with Iudas and repent. So men hate whores after lusts heat is spent: I'me gone, Sir. Tell me true, is he dead? Dead. No matter; tis but morning of revenge, The Sun-set shall be red and Tragicall. Sinne is a Raven creaking her owne fall. Keepe lock'd the doore, and let none enter to us But who shars in our fortunes. Locke the dores. What entertainment did the King bestow Vpon your letters and the Cardinals? With a devouring eye he read'em o're, Swallowing our offers into his empty bosome, As gladly as the parched earth drinks healths Out of the cup of heaven. Little suspecting What dangers closely lye enambushed. Let not us trust to that; there's in his bret Both Fox and Lion, and both those beasts can bite: We must not now behold the narrowest lcope-hole, But presently suspect a winged bullet Flyes whizzing by our eares. For when I let The plummet fall to sound his very soule In his close-chamber, being French-Doctor like, He to the Cardinals eare sung sorcerous notes, The burthen of his song, to mine, was death, Onaelia's murder, and Sebastians; And thinke you his voyce alters now? 'tis strange, To see how brave this Tyrant shewes in Court, Throan'd like a god: great men are petty starres, Where his rayes shine, wonder fills up all eyes By sight of him, let him but once checke sinne, About him round all cry, oh excellent King! Oh Saint-like man! but let this King retire Into his Closet to put off his robes, He like a Player leaves his part off too; Open his brest, and with a Sunne-beame search it, There's no such man; this King of gilded clay, Within is uglinesse, lust, treachery, And a base soule, tho rard Collossus-high. None till he speakes, and that we know his voyce: Who are you? An honest house-keeper in Rosemary-lane too, If you dwell in the same parish. Oh tis our honest Souldier, give him entrance. Men show like coarses, for I meet few but are stuck with Rosemary: every one ask'd mee who was married to day, and I told 'em Adultery and Repentance, and that shame and a Hagman followed'em to Church. There's but two parts to play, shame has done hers, But execution must close up the Scane, And for that cause these sprigs are worne by all, Badges of Marriage, now of Funerall, For death this day turnes Courtier Who must dance with him? The King, and all that are our opposites: That dartor This must flye into the Court Either to shoot this blazing starre from Spaine, Or else so long to wrap him up in clouds, Till all the fatall fires in him burne out, Leaving his State and conscience cleere from doubt Of following uprores.