Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
Thou art deceived, good friend, 'twas not his hand, But the just hand of Heaven that whips my sins, And through my Veins powers out the innocent blood Which I had spilled before; the hand that holds The equal Balance to discern the weight 'Twixt PRINCE's justice and their tyranny, Measures their blessings and their plagues, alike, To their fair virtues or black infamies, And makes the horrid acts of murderous minds But instruments of plague to punish guilt; And pay us in the coin with which we hoped To buy our gluttonous surfeits. Such is the state Of PRINCE's privilege, that we may run Into the depth of sin, and uncontrolled Pull vengeance on our heads, while the smooth hand Of pestilent flattery claps us on the back, And gives us edge to villainy, till they see Misery and desolation close us round; Then they fly back, and gaze, as on a place Stricken with furious thunder in a storm: When every vulgar hand has laws, and fear Of prying authority to hold him back, And friendly enemies to upbraid him with His faults, and keep him in the bounds of mercy, Only our height bereaves us of these helps, And we are soothed in vices, till we run Beyond the reach of grace, and stand within The shot of heaviest vengeance, which seldom comes Short of our merits— O my son! my son! I shall grow mad with grief: my frighted conscience Opens the Book, where I do view my sins, And feel the furies with their wounding whips Lashing my guilty soul to penitence. I was unhappy To be the messenger of this ill news. Who's this? Fioretta the Lady Iulia's woman? My heart! what means her habit? Come Lovers bring your cares, Bring sigh-perfumed sweets, Bedew the grave with tears, Where death and virtue meets: Sigh for the hapless hour That knit two hearts in one, And only gave love power To die when 'twas begun. Saving your mirth fair Lady, what preparation's this? a Bridal sir; true love and greatness be divorced, and now they be both going to be married to misfortune. 'Twas a marriage long since, myself was at the wedding: But be a little plainer, & tell me who it is to be married? Indeed Sir, Beauty, Virtue, and too much faith for a woman, are going to the cold arms of a sullen Churl, one that consumes ere he lets go: yet he is better than your other husbands are; he forsakes them not, leaves them not in misery, he woos them not with flatteries, and poisons with unkindness: he never swears, and lies, but continues faithful till Doomsday. Who be you? A stranger in your City, a poor Husbandman. A poor Husband? than thou art a poor dissembler, a poor murderer: O you husbands kill more than scurvy Physicians, or a plaguy Summer. But art a stranger? A very stranger here. Why that's all one, thou canst not be a stranger to her fame, if thou hast lived but a month in the world. Poor innocent Althaea makes her last marriage, and I am one of her Bridemaids. To whom for loves sake?
seed 43: T14 · seed 44: T9 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Thou art deceiv'd, good friend, 'twas not his hand, But the juſt hand of Heaven that whips my ſinnes, And through my Veins powres out the innocent blood Which I had ſpilt before; the hand that holds The equall Ballance to diſcerne the waight 'Twixt Princes juſtice and their tyrannie, Meaſures their bleſſings and their plagues, alike, To their faire vertues or black infamies, And makes the horrid acts of murderous mindes But inſtruments of plague to puniſh guilt; And pay us in the coyne with which we hop'd To buy our gluttonous ſurfets. Such is the ſtate Of Princes priviledge, that we may runne Into the depth of ſinne, and uncontroul'd Pull vengeance on our heads, while the ſmooth hand Of peſtilent flattery claps us on the back, And gives us edge to villany, till they ſee Miſery and deſolation cloſe us round; Then they flie back, and gaze, as on a place Stricken with furious thunder in a ſtorme: When every vulgar hand has lawes, and feare Of prying authority to hold him backe, And friendly enemies to upbraid him with His faults, and keepe him in the bounds of mercy, Onely our height bereaves us of theſe helps, And wee are ſooth'd in vices, till we runne Beyond the reach of grace, and ſtand within The ſhot of heavieſt vengeance, which ſeldome comes Short of our merits—O my ſonne! my ſonne! I ſhall grow madd with griefe: my frighted conſcience Opens the Booke, where I doe view my ſinnes, And feele the furies with their wounding whips Laſhing my guilty ſoule to penitence. I was unhappy To bee the meſſenger of this ill newes. Who's this? Fioretta the Lady Iulia's woman? My heart! what meanes her habit? Come Lovers bring your cares, Bring ſigh-perfumed ſweets, Bedew the grave with teares, Where death and vertue meets: Sigh for the hapleſſe houre That knit two hearts in one, And onely gave love power To die when 'twas begun. Saving your mirth faire Lady, what preparation's this? a Bridall ſir; true love and greatneſſe be divorc'd, and now they bee both going to be married to misfortune. 'Twas a marriage long ſince, my ſelfe was at the wedding: But be a little plainer, & tell me who it is to be maried? Indeed Sir, Beauty, Vertue, and too much faith for a woman, are going to the cold armes of a ſullen Churle, one that conſumes ere hee lets goe: yet hee is better than your other husbands are; he forſakes them not, leaves them not in miſery, hee wooes them not with flatteries, and poyſons with unkindneſſe: hee never ſweares, and lies, but continues faithfull till Doomes-day. Who be you? A ſtranger in your City, a poore Husbandman. A poore Husband? then thou art a poore diſſembler, a poore murderer: O you husbands kill more than ſcurvie Phyſitians, or a plaguy Summer. But art a ſtranger? A very ſtranger here. Why that's all one, thou canſt not bee a ſtranger to her fame, if thou haſt liv'd but a moneth in the world. Poor innocent Althea makes her laſt mariage, and I am one of her Bridemaids. To whom for loves ſake?