Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
Methinks I sleep, that, thus illusive shows Do mock my apprehension: or is't decreed That even in death I must endure affliction? And die in height of woe? How like his pace, His gesture, shape, and countenance! true constant spirit! (That wouldst not be unless thou mightst be true) Did not my greedy sight distract my thoughts To feed upon thy shadow, and make me forget My business next in hand: I should have flown To be a shadow, and have walked with dead Lucilio— Lucilio! was it my fond conceit? or else Her ghost, that looks each minute for my approach, Thinks my stay long, and calls upon my name? I come Althaea, swift as break the winds From out the Eolian Caves, give me but space To take my flight from off that— Bright Angel! Goddess! whatsoe'er thou art That haste assumed that shape to adorn thy state, And give a better lustre to thy Deity; Do not delude my woes, nor make my death More miserable than myself have done. It does invite me speak, and with his silent looks Seems to entreat a word, yet my faint heart Throbbing with fear, denies to second speech. Be what thou wilt; I know no spirit of night Durst to attempt that form, that ne'er was made But to invest a soul more fair and pure Than are the Spheres. Ghost! Angel! Goddess! Nymph! Speak, deign a word to tell me what thou art, That thus appearest in such a glorious shape To intercept my death? Art thou an Angel That thus wouldst show the world what they have lost By seeing her heavenly form? Or art thou else Some spirit of Diviner excellence That hast put on that shadow, thine own nature To beautify? Or does Althaea's ghost Come thus to meet and chide my slothfulness? Or has thy worth chaste Nymph, deserved to scape The hand of death, and made thy perfect self All soul, immortal, and an unmixed spirit, That those rich virtues which great nature heaped In thy creation, might by envious death ne'er be dissolved, nor the cold senseless earth Embrace and taint thy pure delicious beauty, For which the Stars grew envious to the world? whate'er thou art, if thou hast sense of grief But correspondent to the shape thou bear'st, Add not more torment to the depth of woe That does accompany my death, and urge No more the sight and memory of her Whom I have wronged; envy has left me nought But life to yield in satisfaction, Which here I come to tender as thy due: Or if thou doubtst the payment, and didst come To take a view how willingly I died; Then be my witness that the chased Stag Flies not more swiftly to the cooling streams Then I to death— Stay. Speak. O stay dear love!
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Methinkes I ſleep, that, thus illuſive ſhowes Doe mock my apprehenſion: or is't decreed That even in death I muſt indure affliction? And die in height of woe? How like his pace, His geſture, ſhape, and countenance! true conſtant ſpirit! (That wouldſt not be unleſſe thou mightſt be true) Did not my greedy ſight diſtract my thoughts To feed upon thy ſhadow, and make me forget My buſineſſe next in hand: I ſhould have flowne To be a ſhadow, and have walk'd with dead Lucilio— Lucilio! was it my fond conceit? or elſe Her ghoſt, that lookes each minute for my approach, Thinkes my ſtay long, and cals upon my name? I come Althea, ſwift as breake the windes From out the Eolian Caves, give mee but ſpace To take my flight from off that — Bright Angell! Goddeſſe! whatſoe'r thou art That haſt aſſum'd that ſhape to adorne thy ſtate, And give a better luſtre to thy Deity; Doe not delude my woes, nor make my death More miſerable then my ſelfe have done. It does invite me ſpeak, and with his ſilent looks Seemes to intreat a word, yet my faint heart Throbbing with feare, denies to ſecond ſpeech. Be what thou wilt; I know no ſpirit of night Durſt to attempt that forme, that ne'r was made But to inveſt a ſoule more faire and pure Then are the Spheres. Ghoſt! Angel! Goddeſſe! Nimph! Speake, daine a word to tell me what thou art, That thus appearſt in ſuch a glorious ſhape To intercept my death? Art thou an Angel That thus wouldſt ſhew the world what they have loſt By ſeeing her heavenly forme? Or art thou elſe Some ſpirit of Diviner excellence That haſt put on that ſhadow, thine owne nature To beautifie? Or does Althea's ghoſt Come thus to meet and chide my ſlothfulneſſe? Or has thy worth chaſte Nymph, deſerv'd to ſcape The hand of death, and made thy perfect ſelfe All ſoule, immortall, and an unmixt ſpirit, That thoſe rich vertues which great nature heapt In thy creation, might by envious death Ne'r be diſſolv'd, nor the cold ſenſleſſe earth Embrace and taint thy pure delicious beauty, For which the Starres grew envious to the world? What ere thou art, if thou haſt ſenſe of griefe But correſpondent to the ſhape thou bear'ſt, Add not more torment to the depth of woe That does accompany my death, and urge No more the ſight and memory of her Whom I have wrong'd; envy has left me nought But life to yeeld in ſatisfaction, Which here I come to tender as thy due: Or if thou doubtſt the payment, and didſt come To take a view how willingly I dyed; Then be my witneſſe that the chaſed Stagge Flies not more ſwiftly to the cooling ſtreames Then I to death — Stay. Speake. O ſtay deare love!