Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Hold— hold— Not for my sake, but Orbella's (Sir) a bare and single death is such a wrong to Justice, I must needs except against it. Find out a way to make me long a dying; for death's no punishment, it is the sense, the pains and fears afore that makes a death: To think what I had had, had I had you, what I have lost in losing of myself; are deaths far worse than any you can give: yet kill me quickly, for if I have time, I shall so wash this soul of mine with tears, make it so fine, that you would be afresh in love with it, and so perchance I should again come to deceive you. So rises day, blushing at night's deformity: and so the pretty flowers blubbered with dew, and ever washed with rain, hang down their heads, I must not look upon her: Were but the Lilies in this face as fresh as are the roses; had I but innocence joined to their blushes, I should then be bold, for when they went on begging they were ne'er denied, 'Tis but a parting kiss Sir— I dare not grant it.— Your hand Sir then, for that's a part I shall love after death (if after death we love) cause it did right the wronged Zorannes', here— Sleep, sleep for ever, and forgotten too, all but thy ills, which may succeeding time remember, as the Seaman does his marks, to know what to avoid, may at thy name all good men start, and bad too, may it prove infection to the Air, that people dying of it may help to curse thee for me. Could I but call thee back as easily now; but that's a Subject for our tears, not hopes! there is no piecing Tulips to their stalks, when they are once divorced by a rude hand; all we can do is to preserve in water a little life, and give by courteous Art what scanted Nature wants Commission for, that thou shalt have: for to thy memory such Tribute of moist sorrow I will pay, and that so purified by love, that on thy grave nothing shall grow but Violets and Primroses, of which too, some shall be of the mysterious number, so that Lovers shall come thither not as to a Tomb, but to an Oracle. Come! come! help me to weep myself away, and melt into a grave, for life is but repentance nurse, and will conspire with memory, to make my hours my tortures. What Scene of sorrow's this? both dead! Dead? ay! and 'tis but half death's triumphs this, the King and Prince lie somewhere, just such emptietruncks as these. The Prince? then in grief's burden I must bear a part. The noble Ariaspes— valiant Ziriff too.— Weeps.
nodes 1852–1911 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 29 of 30 in this edition
Length
473 words · 609 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.736 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Hold—hold— Not for my sake, but Orbella's (Sir) a bare and single death is such a wrong to Justice, I must needs except against it. Finde out a way to make mee long a dying; for death's no punishment, it is the sense, the paines and feares afore that makes a death: To thinke what I had had, had I had you, what I have lost in losing of my selfe; are deaths farre worse than any you can give: yet kill mee quickly, for if I have time, I shall so wash this soule of mine with teares, make it so fine, that you would be afresh in love with it, and so perchance I should againe come to deceive you. So rises day, blushing at nights deformitie: and so the prettie flowers blubber'd with dew, and ever washt with raine, hang downe their heads, I must not looke upon her: Were but the Lillies in this face as fresh as are the roses; had I but innocence joyn'd to their blushes, I should then be bold, for when they went on begging they were ne're dende, 'Tis but a parting kisse Sir— I dare not grant it.— Your hand Sir then, for that's a part I shall love after death (if after death wee love) cause it did right the wrong'd Zorannes, here— Sleepe, sleepe for ever, and forgotten too, all but thy ills, which may succeeding time remember, as the Sea-man does his marks, to know what to avoyd, may at thy name all good men start, and bad too, may it prove infection to the Aire, that people dying of it may helpe to curse thee for mee. Could I but call thee back as eas'ly now; but that's a Subject for our teares, not hopes! there is no piecing Tulips to their stalks, when they are once divorc'd by a rude hand; all wee can doe is to preserve in water a little life, and give by courteous Art what scanted Nature wants Commission for, that thou shalt have: for to thy memorie such Tribute of moyst sorrow I will pay, and that so purifi'd by love, that on thy grave nothing shall grow but Violets and Primroses, of which too, some shall be of the mysterious number, so that Lovers shall come thither not as to a Tombe, but to an Oracle. Come! come! help mee to weep my selfe away, and melt into a grave, for life is but repentance nurse, and will conspire with memorie, to make my houres my tortures. What Scene of sorrow's this? both dead! Dead? I! and 'tis but halfe death's triumphs this, the King and Prince lye somewhere, just such emptietruncks as these. The Prince? then in griefes burthen I must beare a part. The noble Ariaspes—valiant Ziriff too.—Weeps.