Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
That man That is transported by a desperate rage, Disarms himself, he that may hinder mischief, And yet permits it, is an accessary. Noble Iustinian, thou wert wont to be Full of compassion, show it now, and end A loathed life. That which had been a crime Not to prevent, were wickedness to act. Restore me then my sword, it is not worse To kill him that unwilling is to die, Than t' hinder him that's willing. If thou kill'st thyself, thereby thou dost confess a guilt. The guilty seldom inflict punishment Upon themselves; what wretch can keep a life So full of misery? 'Tis wretchedness, Not to be able to bear misery, It is not as thou think'st, renowned Doria, A virtue to hate life, but to endure These weighty strokes of Fortune valiantly, And this becomes thy noble birth and spirit, On which th'afflictions of the world should fall, But as tempestuous showers into the sea. Thy counsel comes too late, sentence is given By me upon myself, nor canst thou save Or yet reprieve me, he that resolves to die, Finds weapons everywhere, my mind could arm These hands without a sword, but it disdains All borrowed aid; my weapons are within: If sudden joy can speedy death command, Why should not grief? and mine above all others? Then summon all thy forces mighty sorrow, Contract this stubborn heart and stifle it, Deny it the bold privilege, to be The last that feels the stroke of death: so, so, It shoots a vapour that will poison it, And choke each passage of the vital spirits, And now I feel it beat against my breast, As if it gave th'alarum unto all The organs of my life; O how it struggles, Disdaining to submit! proud rebel down, Thy ligaments are shrunk, and I approach The place, where Lovers after death reside, Where I a ghost will yet enjoy my Bride: Wilt thou not yield? dost thou expect relief? Time, that releaseth sorrow, shall not join With refreshed nature to repair thy ruin: I to a broken heart will add this doom, No substance within these lips shall come. Thy daughter Imperial is canonized: With contrite heart devout Prince Doria, Hath vowed a fast to his Saint Angelica. I feel so great a weight of misery, That I can scarce be sensible of more, Although it be (what's harder to be borne Than my calamity) a villain's scorn. Thus shall my silence break, into remorse, Not into rage, that fever of the soul Is quite converted to an Apathy; Let me cry out to fate, as Hannibal At Can, to his bloody Soldiers, spare; Imperial know'st thou the voice of Spinola? By the most faithful head of my Iustinian (Than which there cannot be a holier found) I truly am moved with pity, thy sad story Would melt a flinty heart into compassion; Procrustes, or the wild Inhabitants Of horrid Caucasus are mild to these.
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)
That man That is tranſported by a deſperate rage, Diſarmes himſelfe, he that may hinder miſchiefe, And yet permits it, is an acceſſary. Noble Iuſtinian, thou wert wont to be Full of compaſſion, ſhew it now, and end A loathed life. That which had bin a crime Not to prevent, were wickedneſſe to act. Reſtore me then my ſword, it is not worſe To kill him that unwilling is to dye, Than t' hinder him that's willing. If thou kil'ſt Thy ſelfe, thereby thou doſt confeſſe a guilt. The guilty ſeldome inflict puniſhment Vpon themſelves; what wretch can keep a life So full of miſery? 'Tis wretchedneſſe, Not to be able to beare miſery, It is not as thou think'ſt, renowned Doria, A vertue to hate life, but to indure Theſe weighty ſtrokes of Fortune valiantly, And this becomes thy noble birth and ſpirit, On which th'afflictions of the world ſhould fall, But as tempeſtuous ſhowres into the ſea. Thy counſell comes too late, ſentence is given By me upon my ſelfe, nor canſt thou ſave Or yet reprieve me, he that reſolves to dye, Findes weapons every where, my minde could arme Theſe hands without a ſword, but it diſdaines All borrowed ayde; my weapons are within: If ſudden joy can ſpeedy death command, Why ſhould not griefe? and mine above all others? Then ſummon all thy forces mighty ſorrow, Contract this ſtubborne heart and ſtifle it, Deny it the bold priviledge, to be The laſt that feeles the ſtroke of death: ſo, ſo, It ſhoots a vapour that will poyſon it, And choke each paſſage of the vitall ſpirits, And now I feele it beat againſt my breaſt, As if it gave th'allarum unto all The organs of my life; O how it ſtrugles, Diſdaining to ſubmit! proud rebell downe, Thy lygaments are ſhrunke, and I approach The place, where Lovers after death reſide, Where I a ghoſt will yet enjoy my Bride: Wilt thou not yeeld? doſt thou expect reliefe? Time, that releaſeth ſorrow, ſhall not joyne With refreſht nature to repaire thy ruine: I to a broken heart will adde this doome, No ſubſtance within theſe lips ſhall come. Thy daughter Imperiale is canoniz'd: With contrite heart devout Prince Doria, Hath vow'd a faſt to his Saint Angelica. I feele ſo great a weight of miſery, That I can ſcarce be ſenſible of more, Although it be (what's harder to be borne Than my calamity) a villains ſcorne. Thus ſhall my ſilence breake, into remorſe, Not into rage, that feaver of the ſoule Is quite converted to an Apathie; Let me cry out to fate, as Hanniball At Canne, to his bloody Souldiers, ſpare; Imperial know'ſt thou the voyce of Spinola? By the moſt faithfull head of my Iuſtinian (Than which there cannot be a holier found) I truly am mov'd with pity, thy ſad ſtory Would melt a flinty leart into compaſſion; Procruſtes, or the wilde Inhabitants Of horrid Caucaſus are milde to theſe.