Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
Ghosts Hobgoblins, will with wisp, or Dick a Tuesday. Thy husband wench this morn journeys to Newcastle And hardly will return these twelve Moons, Let's feast with him, for Ghosts, and such like toys Leave them to foolish dotards, girls, and boys. Keep of, keep back, I charge thee. 'las cousin i'm not infectious my breath cannot blast you? It haunts me as my shadow or a vision? It will not let me rest sleep, nor eat, The barricaded doors and iron locks. No sooner shut but like a new clasped book Their leafy hinges straightway fall asunder, And it gets in; I wonder 'tis not here, This is a gentle respite, and not usual, Since German went I never had so much; It plays the sentinel at my bed's feet? And but it wants the rosy coloured face Whom meager death has played the horseleech with, It would not seem so ghostly in these eyes. It bears the perfect form it used to do. As if it never knew immortality Nor wasted underneath a Hill of Clay. Sometimes as curious limners have portrayed Tears trilling from the weeping Niobe, That some would swear the very picture wept, And art of nature got the mastery? So did I guess afflux of brinish tears Came from this Airy, and unfathomed Ghost? And could the Painters of this age draw sighs I could demonstrate sighs, and heavy groans As if a sensible heart had broke in twain? Then would it turn, and cry false woman. And leave me to descant on the rest! You tell me of an object, and a strange one, But whose is the resemblance? I theirs the point, For that I must be pardoned; oh my shame That I should be the causeress of a deed, I blush to nominate. Has it no name! Yes sweet Ursula, But such a one as sadly aggravates My woes in repetition; pray leave me I am addicted to contemplation But rest within my call. 'tis but your fond conceit; I've heard you say that dreams and visions were fabulous; and yet one time I dreamed foul water ran through the floor, and the next day the house was on fire; you used to say Hobgoblins, Fairies, and the like were nothing but our own affrightments, and ye oh my troth coz I once dreamed of a young bachelor, and was rid with a nightmare. But come, so my conscience be clear I never care how foul my dreams are. Thou now hast touched the point, 'tis conscience is the 'larum Bell indeed That makes us sensible of our good or bad? You that are Lovers, by me you may perceive What is the burden of a troubled mind, Take heed of vows, and protestations Which wantonly in dalliancies you make, The eye of Heaven is on you, and your oaths Are registered; which if you break, bless me.
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)
Ghosts Hobgoblins, will with wispe, or Dicke a Tues-day. Thy husband wench this morne journyes to New-Castle And hardly will returne these twelve Moones, Let's feast with him, for Ghosts, and such like toyes Leave them to foolish dotards, girles, and boyes. Keepe of, keepe backe, I charge thee. Las Cozeni'me not infectious my breath cannot blast you? It haunts me as my shaddow or a vision? It will not let me rest sleepe, nor eat, The barricoded doores and iron locks. No sooner shut but like a new clasp'd booke Their leavy hindges streightway fall asunder, And it gets in; I wonder tis not here, This is a gentle respit, and not usuall, Since German went I never had so much; It plaies the centinnell at my beds feete? And but it wants the rosie coloured face Whom meager death has plaid the Horse-Leech with, It would not seeme so ghostly in these eies. It beares the perfect forme it us'd to doe. As if it never knew immortality Nor wasted underneath a Hill of Clay. Sometimes as curious limners have pourtraid Teares trilling from the weeping Niobe, That some would sweare the very picture wept, And art of nature got the mastery? So did I guesse affluxe of brinish teares Came from this Aiery, and unfadom'd Ghost? And could the Painters of this age draw sighes I could demonstrate sighes, and heavy groanes As if a sensible hart had broke in twaine? Then would it turne, and cry false woman. And leave me to descant on the rest! You tell me of an object, and a strange one, But whose is the resemblance? I theirs the point, For that I must be pardon'd; oh my shame That I should be the cause'res of a deed, I blush to nominate. Has it no name! Yes sweete Vrsula, But such a one as sadly agrauates My woes in repetition; pray leave me I am addicted to contemplation But rest within my call. Tis but your fond conceit; I've heard you say that dreames and visions were fabulous; and yet one time I dreamt fowle water ran through the floore, and the next day the house was on fire; you us'd to say Hobgoblins, Fairies, and the like were nothing but our owne affrightments, and ye oh my troth Cuz I once dream'd of a young batchelour, and was ridd with a Night-Mare. But come, so my conscience be cleere I never care how fowle my dreames are. Thou now hast touch'd the point, Tis conscience is the Larum Bell indeede That makes us sensible of our good or bad? You that are Lovers, by me you may perceive What is the burden of a troubled minde, Take heede of vowes, and protestations Which wantonly in dalliancies you make, The eie of Heaven is on you, and your oaths Are registred; which if you breake, blesse me.