Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
THE cheerful Cock (the sad night's comforter,) Waiting upon the rising of the Sun, Doth sing to see how Cynthia shrinks her horn, While Clitie takes her progress to the East. Where wringing wet with drops of silver dew, Her wonted tears of love she doth renew. The wandering Swallow with her broken song, The Country-wench unto her work awakes; While Cytherea sighing walks to seek Her murdered love, transformed into a Rose. Whom (though she see) to crop she kindly fears; But (kissing) sighs, and dews him with her tears. Sweet tears of love, remembrancers to time. Time past with me that am to tears converted, Whose mournful passions, dull the morning's joys. Whose sweeter sleeps, are turned to fearful dreams. And whose first fortunes, (filled with all distress,) Afford no hope of future happiness. But what disastrous or hard accident, Hath bathed your blubbered eyes in bitter tears? That thus consort me in my misery. Why do you beat your breasts? why mourn you so? Say gentle sisters, tell me, and believe It grieves me that I know not why you grieve. O poor Cornelia, have not we good cause, For former wrongs to furnish us with tears? O but I fear that Fortune seeks new flaws, And still (unsatisfied) more hatred bears. Wherein can Fortune further injure us, Now we have lost our conquered liberty, Our Commonwealth, our Empire, and our honours, Under this cruel Tarquins tyranny? Under his outrage now are all our goods, Where scattered they run by Land and Sea (Like exiled us) from fertile Italy, To proudest Spain, or poorest Getulie. And will the heavens that have so oft defended Our Roman walls, from fury of fierce kings, Not (once again) return our Senators, That from the lybic plains, and Spanish fields, With fearless hearts do guard our Roman hopes? Will they not once again encourage them, To fill our fields with blood of enemies. And bring from Afrique to our Capitol, Upon their helms the Empire that is stole. Then home-born household gods, and ye good spirits, To whom in doubtful things we seek access, By whom our family, hath been adorned, And graced with the name of African. Do ye vouchsafe that this victorious title, Be not expired in Cornelia's blood; And that my Father now (in th'Affrique wars) The self-same style by conquest may continue. But wretched that I am, alas I fear. What fear you Madam? That the frowning heavens, Oppose themselves against us in their wrath. Our loss (I hope) hath satisfied their ire. O no, our loss lifts Caesar's fortunes higher. Fortune is fickle. But hath failed him never. The more unlike she should continue ever. My fearful dreams do my despairs redouble. Why suffer you vain dreams your head to trouble? Who is not troubled with strange visions? That of our spirit are but illusions.
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)
THE cheerefull Cock (the sad nights comforter,) Wayting vpon the rysing of the Sunne, Doth sing to see how Cynthia shrinks her horne, While Clitie takes her progresse to the East. Where wringing wet with drops of siluer dew, Her wonted teares of loue she doth renew. The wandring Swallow with her broken song, The Country-wench vnto her worke awakes; While Citherea sighing walks to seeke Her murdred loue, trans-form'd into a Rose. Whom (though she see) to crop she kindly feares; But (kissing) sighes, and dewes hym with her teares. Sweet teares of loue, remembrancers to tyme. Tyme past with me that am to teares conuerted, Whose mournfull passions, dull the mornings ioyes. Whose sweeter sleepes, are turnd to fearefull dreames. And whose first fortunes, (fild with all distresse,) Afford no hope of future happinesse. But what disastrous or hard accident, Hath bath'd your blubbred eyes in bitter teares? That thus consort me in my myserie. Why doe you beate your brests? why mourne you so? Say gentle sisters, tell me, and belieue It grieues me that I know not why you grieue. O poore Cornelia, haue not we good cause, For former wrongs to furnish vs with teares? O but I feare that Fortune seekes new flawes, And stil (vnsatisfide) more hatred beares. Wherein can Fortune further iniure vs, Now we haue lost our conquered libertie, Our Common-wealth, our Empyre, and our honors, Vnder thys cruell Tarquins tyrannie? Vnder his outrage now are all our goods, Where scattered they runne by Land and Sea (Lyke exil'd vs) from fertill Italy, To proudest Spayne, or poorest Getulie. And will the heauens that haue so oft defended Our Romaine walls, from fury of fierce kings, Not (once againe) returne our Senators, That from the Lybique playnes, and Spanish fields, With feareles harts do guard our Romaine hopes? Will they not once againe encourage them, To fill our fields with blood of enemies. And bring from Affrique to our Capitoll, Vpon theyr helmes the Empyre that is stole. Then home-borne houshold gods, and ye good spirits, To whom in doubtfull things we seeke accesse, By whom our family, hath beene adorn'd, And graced with the name of Affrican. Doe ye vouchsafe that thys victorious title, Be not expired in Cornelias blood; And that my Father now (in th'Affrique wars) The selfe-same style by conquest may continue. But wretched that I am, alas I feare. What feare you Madam? That the frowning heauens, Oppose themselues against vs in theyr wrath. Our losse (I hope) hath satis-fide theyr ire. O no, our losse lyfts Caesars fortunes hyer. Fortune is fickle. But hath fayld him neuer. The more vnlike she should continue euer. My fearefull dreames doe my despairs redouble. Why suffer you vayne dreames your heade to trouble? Who is not troubled with strange visions? That of our spyrit are but illusions.