Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
'tis true, the Heavens (at leastwise if they please) May give poor Rome her former liberty. But (though they would,) I know they cannot give A second life to Pompey, that is slain. Mourn not for Pompey, Pompey could not die A better death, then for his country's weal. For oft he searched amongst the fierce alarms, But (wishing) could not find so fair an end; Till fraught with years, and honour both at once, He gave his body (as a Barricade) For Rome's defence, by Tyrants overlaid. Bravely he died, and (haply) takes it ill, That (envious) we repine at heavens will. Alas, my sorrow would be so much less, If he had died (his falchion in his fist.) Had he amidst huge troops of Armed men Been wounded, by another any way, It would have calmed many of my sighs. For why, t'have seen his noble Roman blood Mixed with his enemies, had done him good. But he is dead, (O heavens) not dead in fight, With pike in hand upon a Fort besieged Defending of a breach, but basely slain: Slain traitorously, without assault in war. Yea, slain he is, and bitter chance decreed To have me there, to see this bloody deed. I saw him, I was there, and in mine arms He almost felt the poniard when he fell. Whereat, my blood stopped in my straggling veins, Mine hair grew bristled, like a thorny grove: My voice lay hid, half dead within my throat. My frightful heart (stunned in my stone-cold breast) Faintly redoubled every feeble stroke. My spirit (chained with impatient rage,) Did raving strive to break the prison open, (Enlarged,) to drown the pain it did abide, In solitary Lethe's sleepy tide. Thrice (to absent me from this hateful light,) I would have plunged my body in the Sea. And thrice detained, with doleful shrieks and cries, (With arms to heaven upreared) I 'gan exclaim And bellow forth against the Gods themselves, A bedroll of outrageous blasphemies. Till (grief to hear, and hell for me to speak,) My woes waxed stronger, and myself grew weak. Thus day and night I toil in discontent, And sleeping wake, when sleep itself that rides Upon the mists, scarce moisteneth mine eyes. Sorrow consumes me, and instead of rest, With folded arms I sadly sit and weep. And if I wink, it is for fear to see, The fearful dreams effects that trouble me. O heavens, what shall I do? alas must I, Must I myself, be murderer of myself? Must I myself be forced to ope the way, Whereat my soul in wounds may sally forth? Madam, you must not thus transpose yourself. We see your sorrow, but who sorrows not? The grief is common. And I muse, besides The servitude that causeth all our cares, Besides the baseness wherein we are yoked, Besides the loss of good men dead and gone, What one he is that in this broil hath been And mourneth not for some man of his kin?
seed 43: T1 · seed 44: T2 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
T'is true, the Heauens (at least-wise if they please) May giue poore Rome her former libertie. But (though they would,) I know they cannot giue A second life to Pompey, that is slaine. Mourne not for Pompey, Pompey could not die A better death, then for his Countries weale. For oft he search't amongst the fierce allarms, But (wishing) could not find so faire an end; Till fraught with yeeres, and honor both at once, Hee gaue his bodie (as a Barricade) For Romes defence, by Tyrants ouer-laide. Brauely he died, and (haplie) takes it ill, That (enuious) we repine at heauens will. Alas, my sorrow would be so much lesse, If he had died (his fauchin in his fist.) Had hee amidst huge troopes of Armed men Beene wounded, by another any waie, It would haue calmed many of my sighes. For why, t'haue seene his noble Roman blood Mixt with his enemies, had done him good. But hee is dead, (O heauens) not dead in fight, With pike in hand vpon a Forte besieg'd Defending of a breach, but basely slaine: Slaine trayterouslie, without assault in warre. Yea, slaine he is, and bitter chaunce decreed To haue me there, to see this bloody deed. I saw him, I was there, and in mine armes He almost felt the poygnard when he fell. Whereat, my blood stopt in my stragling vaines, Mine haire grew bristled, like a thornie groue: My voyce lay hid, halfe dead within my throate. My frightfull hart (stund in my stone-cold breast) Faintlie redoubled eu'ry feeble stroke. My spirite (chained with impatient rage,) Did rauing striue to breake the prison ope, (Enlarg'd,) to drowne the payne it did abide, Insolitary Lethes sleepie tyde. Thrice (to absent me from thys hatefull light,) I would haue plund'd my body in the Sea. And thrice detaind, with dolefull shreeks and cryes, (With armes to heauen vprea'd) I gan exclaime And bellow forth against the Gods themselues, A bedroll of outragious blasphemies. Till (griefe to heare, and hell for me to speake,) My woes waxt stronger, and my selfe grew weake. Thus day and night I toyle in discontent, And sleeping wake, when sleepe it selfe that rydes Vpon the mysts, scarce moysteneth mine eyes. Sorrow consumes mee, and in steed of rest, With folded armes I sadly sitte and weepe. And if I winck, it is for feare to see, The fearefull dreames effects that trouble mee. O heauens, what shall I doe? alas must I, Must I my selfe, be murderer of my selfe? Must I my selfe be forc'd to ope the way, Whereat my soule in wounds may sally forth? Madam, you must not thus transpose your selfe. VVe see your sorrow, but who sorrowes not? The griefe is common. And I muse, besides The seruitude that causeth all our cares, Besides the basenes wherein we are yoked, Besides the losse of good men dead and gone, What one he is that in this broile hath bin And mourneth not for some man of his kin?