Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
Photis and false Achillas he beheaded. That was, because that Pompey being their friend, they had determined once of Caesar's end. What got he by his death? Supremacy. Yet Caesar speaks of Pompey honourably. Words are but wind, nor meant he what he spoke. He will not let his statues be broke. By which disguise (whate'er he doth pretend) His own from being broke he doth defend. And by the trains wherewith he us allures, His own estate more firmly he assures. He took no pleasure in his death you see. Because himself of life did not bereave him. Nay, he was moved with former amity. He never trusted him but to deceive him. But, had he loved him with a love unfeigned, Yet had it been a vain and trustless league; " For there is nothing in the soul of man So firmly grounded, as can qualify, " Th'inextinguishable thirst of signiory. Not heavens fear, nor country's sacred love, " Not ancient laws, nor nuptial chaste desire, Respect of blood, or (that which most should move,) " The inward zeal that Nature doth require: All these, nor any thing we can devise, " Can stoop the heart resolved to tyrannize. I fear your griefs increase with this discourse. My griefs are such, as hardly can be worse. " Time calmeth all things. No time qualifies my doleful spirits endless miseries. My grief is like a Rock, whence (ceaseless) strain Fresh springs of water at my weeping eyes: Still fed by thoughts, like floods with winter's rain. For when to ease th'oppression of my heart, I breath an Autumn forth of fiery sighs, Yet herewithal my passion neither dies, Nor dries the heat the moisture of mine eyes. Can nothing then recure these endless tears? Yes, news of Caesar's death that medicine bears. Madam, beware, for should he hear of this, his wrath against you 'twill exasperate. I neither stand in fear of him nor his. 'tis policy to fear a powerful hate. What can he do? Madam what cannot men that have the power to do what pleaseth them? He can do me no mischief that I dread. Yes, cause your death. Thrice happy were I dead. With rigorous torments. Let him torture me. Pull me in pieces, famish, fire me up, Fling me alive into a lions den: There is no death so hard torments me so, As his extreme triumphing in our woe. But if he will torment me, let him then Deprive me wholly of the hope of death; For I had died before the fall of Rome, And slept with Pompey in the peaceful deeps, Save that I live in hope to see ere long, That Caesar's death shall satisfy his wrong.
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)
Photis and false Achillas he beheadded. That was, because that Pompey being theyr freend, they had determin'd once of Caesars end. What got he by his death? Supremacie. Yet Caesar speakes of Pompey honourablie. Words are but winde, nor meant he what he spoke. He will not let his statues be broke. By which disguise (what ere he doth pretend) His owne from beeing broke he doth defend. And by the traynes where-with he vs allures, His owne estate more firmely he assures. He tooke no pleasure in his death you see. Because hymselfe of life did not bereaue him. Nay, he was mou'd with former amitie. He neuer trusted him but to deceiue him. But, had he lou'd him with a loue vnfained, Yet had it beene a vaine and trustlesse league; "For there is nothing in the soule of man "So firmely grounded, as can qualifie, "Th'inextinguible thyrst of signiorie. "Not heauens feare, nor Countries sacred loue, "Not auncient lawes, nor nuptiall chast desire, "Respect of blood, or (that which most should moue,) "The inward zeale that Nature doth require: "All these, nor any thing we can deuise, "Can stoope the hart resolu'd to tyrannize. I feare your griefes increase with thys discourse. My griefes are such, as hardly can be worse. "Tyme calmeth all things. No tyme quallifies my dolefull spyrits endles myseries. My griefe is lyke a Rock, whence (ceaseles) strayne Fresh springs of water at my weeping eyes: Still fed by thoughts, lyke floods with winters rayne. For when to ease th'oppression of my hart, I breathe an Autumne sorth of fiery sighes, Yet herewithall my passion neither dyes, Nor dryes the heate the moysture of mine eyes. Can nothing then recure these endlesse teares? Yes, newes of Caesars death that medcyn beares. Madam, beware, for should hee heare of thys, his wrath against you t'will exasperate. I neither stand in feare of him nor his. T'is pollicie to feare a powrefull hate. What can he doe? Madam what cannot men that haue the powre to doe what pleaseth them? He can doe mee no mischiefe that I dread. Yes, cause your death. Thrise happy were I dead. With rigorous torments. Let him torture mee. Pull me in peeces, famish, fire mee vp, Fling mee aliue into a Lyons denn: There is no death so hard torments mee so, As his extreame tryumphing in our woe. But if he will torment me, let him then Depriue me wholy of the hope of death; For I had died before the fall of Rome, And slept with Pompey in the peacefull deepes, Saue that I lyue in hope to see ere long, That Caesars death shall satisfie his wrong.