Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
I know not, gentle Spinola how thou Canst accept thanks from me, that have from thee deserved so ill, It may not be supposed ●●an dissemble now, that Villain there Contrived thy dear son's death without my knowledge, Though I am guilty of as great a crime, For I was willing, to my too late grief Upon discovery made by thine own Slave Of thy intent, to have the same retorted Upon thyself, the rest that wretch did plot, In whom I placed a wicked confidence; And did at length too much applaud the fact, From whence our mutual misery's result. Thy crime was but diversion of an evil, Whereof I hate the memory, and wish I could drink deep of Lethe, to forget That impious design, and for these villains, I'll study a new punishment, that shall Transcend Perillus' Bull, and all the torments Invented by the fierce Sicilian tyrants. 'Tis wretchedness to fear where there's no hope, Couldst thou believe, vain Spinola, that we Would undertake to act so bold a mischief, And not resolve upon as brave an end? We that have gained such a full revenge, Mean not to lose it by a poor submission To hopeless mercy, or your new found torments; Though fortune made us wretched slaves to you, We both retain some sparks of th'active fire, Which the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Did sometimes flame in our Numidean breasts, Not yet so quench thy servitude, but we Have will and power to free ourselves, behold Out liberty; these shall restore us now To that equality that nature gave, In which blind chance hath put a difference: One blow from these deliverers, can make An abject beggar equal to a King: Sango keep time. I'm ready. By consent We thus avoid & mock your punishment. The Harpies are flown suddenly to hell, And hang already on that hideous rock; Where dreadful fiends lie gaping to receive 'em; But let me, sir, become your faithful guide To lead you to my house, where you shall live, And want no comfort love or cost can give. The only comfort of a wretched soul Is to despair of comfort. I see not The mansion guilty of such wickedness, But I am seen, a wretch, in Genua, Where all my ancestors stand wreathed with honour: I'll wander to a desert, or else climb Some remote mountain, where dark clouds that hung About his high erected head, shall hide me From all the eyes of men, there I'll lament My miseries in willing banishment. What need we care how powerful our foes be? When slaves can bring us to such misery? Whose innate cruelties at length appear, Though they the same may cunningly forbear, For their own ends; it is not wisdom then To place our trust in such conditioned men, Whom punishments, and wants, and fears prepare To hatred, to deceit, and to despair: Yet these are but poor instruments, the cause That on our heads heavens indignation draws, Springs from ourselves, 'gainst which there's no defence
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)
know not, gentle Spinola how thou Cat accept thanks from me, that have from thee eſerv'd ſo ill, It may not be ſuppos'd an diſſemble now, that Villaine there Contriv'd thy deare ſons death without my knowledge, Though I am guiltie of as great a crime, For I was willing, to my too late greife Vpon diſcovery made by thine owne Slave Of thy intent, to have the ſame retorted Vpon thy ſelfe, the reſt that wretch did plot, In whom I plac'd a wicked confidence; And did at length too much applaud the fact, From whence our mutuall miſeries reſult. Thy crime was but diverſion of an evill, Whereof I hate the memory, and wiſh I could drinke deep of Lethe, to forget That impious deſigne, and for theſe villains, I'le ſtudy a new puniſhment, that ſhall Tranſcend Perillus Bull, and all the torments Invented by the fierce Sicilian tyrants. 'Tis wretchedneſſe to feare where ther's no hope, Could'ſt thou beleeve, vaine Spinola, that we Would undertake to act ſo bold a miſchiefe, And not reſolve upon as brave an end? We that have gained ſuch a full revenge, Meane not to loſe it by a poore ſubmiſſion To hopeleſſe mercy, or your new found torments; Though fortune made us wretched ſlaves to you, We both retaine ſome ſparks of th'active fire, Which the Did ſometimes flame in our Numidean breaſts, Not yet ſo quench thy ſervitude, but we Have will and power to free our ſelves, behold Out liberty; theſe ſhall reſtore us now To that equality that nature gave, In which blinde chance hath put a difference: One blow from theſe deliverers, can make An abject begger equall to a King: Sango keepe time. I'm ready. By conſent We thus avoyd & mock your puniſhment. The Harpies are flown ſuddenly to hell, And hang already on that hideous rocke; Where dreadfull fiends lye gaping to receive 'm; But let me, ſir, become your faithfull guide To leade you to my houſe, where you ſhall live, And want no comfort love or coſt can give. The onely comfort of a wretched ſoule Is to deſpaire of comfort. I ſee not The manſion guilty of ſuch wickedneſſe, But I am ſeene, a wretch, in Genua, Where all my anceſtors ſtand wreath'd with honour: I'le wander to a deſart, or elſe clime Some remote mountaine, where dark clouds that hung About his high erected head, ſhall hide me From all the eyes of men, there I'le lament My miſeries in willing baniſhment. What need we care how powerfull our foes be? When ſlaves can bring us to ſuch miſery? Whoſe innate cruelties at length appeare, Though they the ſame may cunningly forbeare, For their owne ends; it is not wiſedome then To place our truſt in ſuch condition'd men, Whom puniſhments, and wants, and feares prepare To hatred, to deceit, and to deſpaire: Yet theſe are but poore inſtruments, the cauſe That on our heads heavens indignation drawes, Springs from our ſelves, ſt which ther's no defence