Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
YOu stars of Honour, brighter than the day, Or new raised Phoebus in his morning Ray; A● rich in Wisdom as in Virtues rare; Accept the choicest dish our wits prepare, As a third course to please your eye, which still Covets to have of novelties its fill. We have not bundled up some Kickshaws here To bid you welcome; We do hate such gear. Our brain's the Kitchen, and our wit's the meat, Preparative to which, we bid you eat, If liked, if not refrained; you Judges sit To damn or save our not yet ripened wit: So rest upon your goodness; if you frown, Our poor endeavours than are trodden down. HOW still the morning is, as if it meant To steal upon us without Time's consent, And pry into our errors. I have been Searching in every Thicket, Wood, and Green To find my Lamb, and many doleful cries Entered my ears ever day. What's this that lies In such an obscure place, where none scarce tread, Unless the Ghosts of the disturbed dead? Bless me great Pan, I see it's Cliton's face With a sword drawn; how happy was my chase This way! I hope his folly has not made Himself a Beast, as butchered with this Blade; IT may be he sleeps: I'll speak to him, and try; Yet I half doubt him 'cause he here doth lie. Cliton, awake, the Night's dislodged, and now Bright Morn is trimming of her Virgin brow, To court the Sun, when from the Western deep And Thetis lap his glimmering beams do peep T'ascend his glorious Car. Cliton— awake, And with thy sleep all dreams of horror shake That may affright thee. Kind Alexis, thanks, How found you me? Walking those flowery banks, Betwixt the green valley, and the place which we Have consecrated to Love's Deity: Seeking a strayed Lamb, I did hear sad moans Proceed from some like peals of parting groans, Which I pursued, but in my search I found None but yourself: you resting on this ground I wondered much to see you! So you might. But when y'ave herded the cause on't, 'twill affright Your easy breast. Do you observe this Hand, This fatal Hand, at my unjust command Did:— O, I could destroyed! For what offence? This hand has spilt the blood of Innocence, My Florida's. How? And when I'd done (As I might well) did hid me from the Sun, Fearing his eye would be the only cause To find me out; and here from men and laws I have obscured myself, and could not say 'Twas justly night, when night: Nor day when day; My fact had sulled both. What urged thee to such inhumanity? Only suspicion of her loyalty, Dreaming Lysander had enjoyed her love, My jealousy to cruelty did move: I slay her three days since, and since have been Each night at that place I stained with my sin, To seek the body, but some sacred Power, For none else dared approach her purity, Has certainly made her immortal, and Conveyed the body to some holier land.
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)
YOu starres of Honour, brighter than the day, Or new rais'd Phoebus in his morning Ray; A rich in Wisedome as in Vertues rare; Accept the choicest dish our wits prepare, As a third course to please your eye, which still Covets to have of novelties its fill. We have not bundled up some Kickshawes here To bid you welcome; Wee doe hate such geere. Our braine's the Kitchin, and our wit's the meat, Preparitive to which, wee bid you eat, If lik't, if not refrain't; you Judges sit To damne or save our not yet ripen'd wit: So rest upon your goodnesse; if you frowne, Our poore endeavours then are troden downe. HOW still the morning is, as if it meant To steale upon us without Times consent, And pry into our errors. I have beene Searching in every Thicket, Wood, and Greene To finde my Lamb, and many dolefull cryes Enter'd my eares e're day. What's this that lyes In such an obscure place, where none scarce tread, Unlesse the Ghosts of the disturbed dead? Blesse me great Pan, I see it's Clitons face With a sword drawne; how happy was my chace This way! I hope his folly has not made Himselfe a Beast, as butcher'd with this Blade; 'T may be he sleepes: I'le speake to him, and try; Yet I halfe doubt him 'cause he here doth lye. Cliton, awake, the Night's dislodg'd, and now Bright Morne is trimming of her Virgin brow, To court the Sunne, when from the Westerne deepe And Thetis lap his glimmering beames doe peepe T'ascend his glorious Carre. Cliton — awake, And with thy sleepe all dreames of horror shake That may affright thee. Kinde Alexis, thanks, How found you me? Walking those flowry banks, 'Twixt the greene valley, and the place which wee Have consecrated to Loves Deity: Seeking a stray'd Lamb, I did heare sad moanes Proceed from some like peales of parting groanes, Which I pursu'd, but in my search I found None but your selfe: you resting on this ground I wonder'd much to see you! So you might. But when y'ave heard the cause on't, 'twill affright Your easie brest. Doe you observe this Hand, This fatall Hand, at my unjust command Did: — Oh, I could destroy't! For what offence? This hand has spilt the blood of Innocence, My Florida's. How? And when I'd done (As I might well) did hide me from the Sunne, Fearing his eye would be the onely cause To finde me out; and here from men and lawes I have obscur'd my selfe, and could not say 'Twas justly night, when night: Nor day when day; My fact had sulled both. What urg'd thee to such inhumanity? Onely suspition of her loyalty, Dreaming Lysander had enjoy'd her love, My jealousie to cruelty did move: I slew her three dayes since, and since have bin Each night at that place I stain'd with my sin, To seeke the body, but some sacred Power, For none else durst approach her purity, Has certainly made her immortall, and Convey'd the body to some holier land.