Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
The night comes on apace, straight every thing Will be as black as I, and alike terrible, Nay outdo me too: each leaf that stirs Affrights the fearful, makes the guilty tremble, And yet this night, what is it but a shadow? Yet I am less than that, for I do less: I that have purposed so much, act nothing! Horror! could but my thoughts be seen, they'd own Murders, more than the basilisk could commit, Were he all eye, more than revenge has acted, Or than the trivial spite of plague, and war Produce, in their full heat.— Ursini be speedy Or I'll outrun design.— Zisco. My Lord. The hours are favourable And have brought opportunity along with 'em, We must resolve for action. I'm prepared. But Zisco, art thou sure Felicia was.— Sure? puh! would you know? I myself Am the Moore he caused to ravish her. And canst thou do't again? Bravely. This night than thou shalt— ravish his Mistress, Calantha! this night! I've prepared all things ready For thy conveyance into her chamber— thou wilt do't Resolved. And kill her too? An she were my mother. Obscure yourself a while.— how now? My Lord, the French have kept their word, And unespied have stolen from Genoa, Entered our haven, and this night have set Upon our fleet, the bold Sicilians too I'th' town are up in arms. There spoke my Genius. My Lord! the city's in a mutiny, The Court in wild distraction. Well, beyond my hopes: excellent well; Grutti, Cassio, be near us, we must use your help tonight. Valenzo plays from the Castle with his Canons, And strikes both parties without distinction: He's now marching up with a well ordered troop, 'tis thought he had intelligence of your intents. O my fate! that man undoes me. Thus early sins are blasted in the bud, There is no safety but in being good. 'Tis late. Each man retire to his quarter: Captains, We entertain your merit with a serious welcome. Our deserts, my Lord, Are so slender, that were't not to prejudice Your judgement, we would blush to own any. Hang this flattery, merit quotha? is't such a piece of merit to cut a score or two of throats; knock down an hundred o'th' city herd? a gallant could do so much for's Cockatrice. The King shall give you each particular thinks: He owes you both a trophy, His acknowledgement Of our duty, would raise our pride to sin, We should forget to let heaven share i'th' victory. Victories, by Mars's crest it deserves not to come i'th' Chronicle, though Hollinshead or Hall, those voluminous foreigners should write our annals, 'twill ne'er make us justle in among the Caesars, or own a name i'th' list o'th' worthies. No Contareno, we will not have thee painted in vile ugly colours, and clapped upon chimneys, thou shalt be cut— In brass? mine would make an excellent brazen face? In Parian marble, we'll rob the Quarries To rear thee up a glorious monument.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T45 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The night comes on apace, ſtreight every thing Will be as blacke as I, and alike terrible, Nay out-doe mee too: each leafe that ſtirres Affrights the fearfull, makes the guilty tremble, And yet this night, what is it but a ſhadow? Yet I am leſſe than that, for I do leſſe: I that have purpos'd ſo much, act nothing! Horrour! could but my thoughts be ſeene, they'd owne Murders, more than the baſiliske could commit, Were he all eye, more than revenge has acted, Or than the triviall ſpight of plague, and warre Produce, in their full heate. — Ʋrſini be ſpeedy Or I'le outrunne deſigne. — Ziſco. My Lord. The houres are favourable And have brought opportunitie along with 'em, We muſt reſolve for action. I'me prepar'd. But Ziſco, art thou ſure Felicia was.— Sure? puh! would you know? I my ſelfe Am the Moore he caus'd to raviſh her. And canſt thou do't againe? Bravely. This night then thou ſhalt—raviſh his Miſtris, Calantha! this night! I've prepar'd all things ready For thy conveyance into her chamber—thou wilt doe't Reſolv'd. And kill her too? An ſhee were my mother. Obſcure your ſelfe a while.—how now? My Lord, the French have kept their word, And uneſpied have ſtolne from Genoa, Enter'd our haven, and this night have ſet Upon our fleete, the bold Sicilians too I'th towne are up in armes. There ſpoke my Genius. My Lord! the Cittie's in a mutinie, The Court in wild diſtraction. Well, beyond my hopes: excellent well; Grutti, Caſſio, be nere us, we muſt uſe your helpe to night. Valenzo playes from the Caſtle with his Canons, And ſtrikes both parties without diſtinction: He's now marching up with a well ord'red troope, T'is thought he had intelligence of your intents. O my fate! that man undoe's mee. Thus early ſins are blaſted in the bud, There is no ſafety but in being good. —'Tis late. Each man retire to his quarter: Captaines, We entertaine your merit with a ſerious welcome. Our deſerts, my Lord, Are ſo ſlender, that wer't not to prejudice Your judgement, we would bluſh to owne any. Hang this flattery, merit quotha? is't ſuch a piece of merit to cut a ſcore or two of throats; knocke downe an hundred o'th citty herd? a gallant could do ſo much for's Cockatrice. The King ſhall give you each particular thinkes: He owes you both a trophey, His acknowledgement Of our duty, would raiſe our pride to ſinne, We ſhould forget to let heaven ſhare i'th victory. Victories, by Mars's creſt it deſerves not to come i'th Chronicle, though Hollinſhead or Hall, thoſe voluminous forreiners ſhould write our annals, 'twill ne're make us juſtle in among the Caeſars, or owne a name i'th liſt o'th worthies. No Contareno, wee will not have thee painted in vile ugly colours, and clapt upon chimneies, thou ſhalt be cut— In braſſe? mine would make an excellent brazen face? In Parian marble, wee'le rob the Quarries To reare thee up a glorious monument.