Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
't is dangerous to be near him; There's such an Antipathy, twixt him, and virtue, He wears its ruin in his looks. 'Tis strange, A Prince so wise and virtuous should not descry His falsehood through his visor; or at least Lend ear to the loud cries of wronged Innocents. He hath no use of either ear, or eye, But what his loved Ursini lends him; he Only rules, and limits his affections; Suffers him not to cast a frown or smile, But where he pleases; his next endearment, is His care o'th' Princess, our Sicilian captive: Whom sorrow for her father's death, (slain in The war, by him that was designed her lover; Our famed Prince Ferrando,) has brought Into a desperate melancholy; what reward He expects, I cannot tell, unless it be The Crown: you have heard of her strange distemper? And wonder at the sudden change: I've seen her, maugre all those sudden fears, Her tender age, and womanhood could urge; Stand in the head of troops, that we ev'n feared They had engaged some Goddess in their quarrel; Bear up against the enemy, when her men Lay scattered in the plains, like the ripe ears The wealthy harvest yields into the Grange. I know not how, but sure sh'as made the King Wild; he has such divers fits, as he had learned To be mysterious in's passion; I have seen him weep, Like a fond mother o'er her tender babe, Whom too rude fate has ravished unripe from her: Then rave, and curse, talk as he wanted reason To guide his speech's Organ: or soft sleep To recall his straggling senses: Mutter distracted thoughts in broken words, Until he lights upon her name, and then He bows at the recital; blesses himself In th' often repetition of Calantha. There's somewhat in't, her passion should lie hid So long, and now break out so violently. She rather seemed too thrifty, than too prodigal Of tears, when she left Sicily; and taught us To call't our chiefest happiness, we should have A Queen, that reigned at home, that bore more sway Over the people of her breast, than country. Alas poor maid! why now she's a true captive To passion, and to Naples: had she been still Queen over her great self, none could have said She'd had been unhappy; now, and not till now She's truly miserable. 'Tis holiness to pity her. Our tears are better spent upon her sorrows, Than our own sins, she talks so prettily, Clothes grief in such a sad, and pious garb, So void of any rudeness, that we see Composedness in distraction, reason in madness; She never walks but when she's led along, And that so faintly, as she had not spirits Enough to actuate her tender limbs: Want of meat and sleep have made her seem A living corpse; to see her weep, you'd fear That every drop were her own funeral tear. Hell, and furies!—
seed 43: T14 · seed 44: T9 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
T' is dangerous to be neere him; There's ſuch an Antipathy, twixt him, and vertue, He weares it's ruine in his lookes. 'Tis ſtrange, A Prince ſo wiſe and vertuours ſhould not deſcry His falſhood through his vifour; or at leaſt Lend eare to the loud cries of wronged Innocents. He hath no uſe of either eare, or eye, But what his lov'd Ʋrſini lends him; hee Onely rules, and limits his affections; Suffers him not to caſt a frowne or ſmile, But where he pleaſes; his next indearement, is His care o'th Princeſſe, our Sicilian captive: Whom ſorrow for her fathers death, (ſlaine in The warre, by him that was deſign'd her lover; Our fam'd Prince Ferrando,) has brought Into a deſperate melancholy; what reward He expects, I cannot tell, unleſſe it be The Crowne: you have heard of her ſtrange diſtemper? And wonder at the ſudden change: I've ſeene her, maugre all thoſe ſudden feares, Her tender age, and womanhood could urge; Stand in the head of troopes, that we ev'n fear'd They had engag'd ſome Goddeſſe in their quarrell; Beare up againſt the enemy, when her men Lay ſcatter'd in the plaines, like the ripe eares The wealthy harveſt yeelds into the Grange. I know not how, but ſure ſh'as made the King Wilde; he has ſuch divers fits, as he had learn'd To be myſterious in's paſſion; I have ſeene him weepe, Like a fond mother o're her tender babe, Whom too rude fate has raviſh't unripe from her: Then rave, and curſe, talke as he wanted reaſon To guide his ſpeeches Organ: or ſoft ſleepe To recall his ſtragling ſenſes: Mutter diſtracted thoughts in broken words, Untill he lights upon her name, and then He bowes at the recitall; bleſſes himſelfe In th' often repetition of Calantha. There's ſomewhat in't, her paſſion ſhould lye hid So long, and now breake out ſo violently. She rather ſeem'd too thrifty, than too prodigall Of teares, when ſhe left Sicily; and taught us To call't our chiefeſt happineſſe, we ſhould have A Queene, that raign'd at home, that bore more ſway Over the people of her breſt, than country. Alas poore maid! why now ſhe's a true captive To paſſion, and to Naples: had ſhee beene ſtill Queene over ber great ſelfe, none could have ſaid She'd had beene unhappy; now, and not till now She's truly miſerable. 'Tis holineſſe to pittie her. Our teares are better ſpent upon her ſorrowes, Than our owne ſinnes, ſhe talkes ſo prettily, Clothes griefe in ſuch a ſad, and pious garbe, So void of any rudeneſſe, that wee ſee Compoſedneſſe in diſtraction, reaſon in madneſſe; She never walkes but when ſhe's led along, And that ſo faintly, as ſhe had not ſpirits Enough to actuate her tender limbes: Want of meate and ſleepe have made her ſeeme A living coarſe; to ſee her weepe, you'de feare That every drop were her owne funerall teare. —Hell, and furies!—