Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
And dare encounter lightning, stand a thunderbolt, Or enraged winds; contend with that high influence By which you flourish, yet ne'er fear a blasting: His favour is a tyranny; it is The pride of Princes, to be thought Gods here On earth, daring to mock omnipotence, To create them favourites, set them aloft In their own sphere, till remote Kingdoms gaze At their prodigious height, then in an instant Shoot them from thence, like falling meteors: Had he not loved you first, you could not be The object of his hate, you were too poor, And safe, when 'twas, to have him glory in Your ruins: innocence below enjoys Security, and quiet sleeps, murder's not heard of, Treachery is a stranger there, they enjoy Their friends, and loves, without ravishment, They are all equal, every one's a Prince, And rules himself, they speak not with their eyes, Or brows, but with the tongue, & that too dwells i'th' heart: Were it but thus at Court, your famed marquess had not fallen.— Alberto: ha. Why start you Sir? 'Tis he: Frederico. Oh that man! he was unhappy in his PRINCE's love. Your honours are no more your own than his: 'Twas the same favour that conferred them both, And the same frown may take 'em both away: He lets you only grow till you are envied, And then you'll fall unpitied. I have learned cruelty from him: Zisco, thou shalt applaud the mysteries, The rare contrivances of my revenge; My fate lies in his breast, but this, this arm Shall ravished thence. Now your rage becomes you: When Princes put off their humanity, Murders, a holy sin, you may be good, And fall like him, whose aged head lies low, Low in the dust. Again? this confirms it. The groans of whose sunk house, are heard To affright strangers; whilst Naples yet Stained with the purple tide, his soul swam forth in, does blush at its own guilt: his son Frederico (You know) was lost at Sicily in a crowd. 'Tis so reported, yet I believe— My Lord. That he was slain at Ferrando's command. Perhaps and by a slave. Felicia too, unhappy maid— Your sister,— I there, Now thou strik'st home. First won to his embraces By volleys of false oaths, her virgin honour Rifled, her chaste womb swollen with the impostume Of his salt lust, then torn with spite from's bosom, Ravished, murdered, and by whom? (I could hate myself, For taking birth amongst such,) cursed Moors: Were she your enemy, her cause, and sex Would challenge pity; but you loved her dearly, The Mistress you adored; who then can think But that your soul is black, and stained as his, That are thus tame? Zisco, thoust raised a flame within this breast, Nought but his blood can quench:—thanks to my brame;— It shall be so;— The fatal raven croaks; 'Tis ominous, if he outlive this night We are no more:— Come we'll go plot within. Here's his, study, Is he there? Yet do but observe his posture: How he sits like a reverend Ape painted upon a Galley-pot, with an Urinal in's hand. Faith Signior, in my judgement youhave wronged your simile.
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)
And dare encounter lightning, ſtand a thunder-bolt, Or enrag'd winds; contend with that high influence By which you flouriſh, yet nere feare a blaſting: His favour is a tyranny; it is The pride of Princes, to be thought Gods here On earth, daring to mocke omnipotence, To create them favourites, ſet them aloft In their owne ſpheare, till remote Kingdomes gaze At their prodigious height, then in an inſtant Shoote them from thence, like falling meteors: Had he not lov'd you firſt, you could not be The object of his hate, you were too poore, And ſafe, when 'twas, to have him glory in Your ruines: innocence below enjoyes Security, and quiet ſleepes, murder's not heard of, Treachery is a ſtranger there, they enjoy Their friends, and loves, without raviſhment, They are all equall, every one's a Prince, And rules himſelfe, they ſpeake not with their eyes, Or browes, but with the tongue, & that too dwells i'th heart: Were it but thus at Court, your fam'd Marqueſſe had not fallen.— Alberto: ha. Why ſtart you Sir? 'Tis he: Frederico. Oh that man! he was unhappie in his Princes love. Your honours are no more your owne than his: 'Twas the ſame favour that conferr'd them both, And the ſame frowne may take 'em both away: He lets you onely grow till you are envy'd, And then you'le fall unpittied. I have learn'd cruelty from him: Ziſco, thou ſhalt applaud the myſteries, The rare contrivances of my revenge; My fate lyes in his breſt, but this, this arme Shall raviſh't thence. Now your rage becomes you: When Princes put off their humanity, Murders, a holy ſinne, you may be good, And fall like him, whoſe aged head lies low, Low in the duſt. Againe? this confirmes it. The groanes of whoſe ſunke houſe, are heard To affright ſtrangers; whilſt Naples yet Stain'd with the purple tyde, his ſoule ſwam forth in, Do's bluſh at it's owne guilt: his ſonne Frederico (You know) was loſt at Sicily in a croud. 'Tis ſo reported, yet I beleeve— My Lord. That he was ſlaine at Ferrando's command. Perhaps and by a ſlave. Felicia too, unhappy maid — Your ſiſter, —I there, Now thou ſtrik'ſt home. Firſt wonne to his embraces By vollies of falſe oathes, her virgin honour Rifled, her chaſt wombe ſwolne with the impoſthume Of his ſalt luſt, then torne with ſpight from's boſome, Raviſh't, murder'd, and by whom? (I could hate my ſelfe, For taking birth amongſt ſuch,) curſed Moores: Were ſhee your enemy, her cauſe, and ſex Would challenge pitty; but you lov'd her dearly, The Miſtreſſe you ador'd; who then can thinke But that your ſoule is blacke, and ſtain'd as his, That are thus tame? Ziſco, th'aſt raiſ'd a flame within this breaſt, Nought but his blood can quench:—thanks to my brame;— It ſhall be ſo;— The fatall raven croakes; 'Tis ominous, if he outlive this night We are no more: —Come we'le goe plot within. Here's his, ſtudie, Is he there? Yet do but obſerve his poſture: How he ſits like a reverend Ape painted upon a Gally-pot, with an Urinall in's hand. Faith Signior, in my judgement y'have wrong'd your ſimile.