Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T54: antony, caesar, anthony, cleopatra, antonius, love, death, die, heart, breast.
This Anthony can say is true, And Cleopatra knows 'tis so, By th'experience of their woe. She can say, she never knew But that just found pleasures new, And was never satisfied: He can say by proof of toil, Ambition is a Vulture vile, That feeds upon the heart of pride: And finds no rest when all is tried. For worlds cannot confine the one, Th'other, lists and bounds hath none. And both subvert the mind, the state, Procure destruction, envy, hate. And now when all this is proved vain, Yet Opinion leaves not here, But sticks to Cleopatra near. Persuading now, how she shall gain Honour by death, and fame attain. And what a shame it were to live, Her kingdom lost, her Lover dead: And so with this persuasion led, Despair doth such a courage give, That nought else can her mind relieve. Nor yet divert her from that thought: To this conclusion all is brought. This is that rest this vain world lends, To end in death that all thing ends. HOW deeply Arius am I bound to thee, That savedst from death this wretched life of mine: Obtaining Caesar's gentle grace for me, When I of all helps else despaired but thine? Although I see in such a woeful state, Life is not that which should be much desired: Sith all our glories come to end their date, Our country's honour and our own expired. Now that the hand of wrath hath overgone us, Living (as 'twere) in th'arms of our dead mother, With blood under our feet ruin upon us, And in a Land most wretched of all other, When yet we reckon life our dearest good. And so we live, we care not how we live: So deep we feel impressed in our blood, That touch which nature with our breath did give. And yet what blasts of words hath learning found, To blow against the fear of death and dying? What comforts unsick Eloquence can sound, And yet all fails us in the point of trying. For whilst we reason with the breath of safety, Without the compass of destruction living: What precepts show we then, what courage lofty In taxing others fears in counsel giving? When all this air of sweet-contrived words, Proves but weak armour to defend the heart. For when this life, pale fear and terror boards, Where are our precepts then, where is our art? O who is he that from himself can turn, That bears about the body of a man? Who doth not toil and labour to adjourn The day of death, by any means he can? All this I speak to th'end myself t'excuse, For my base begging of a servile breath, Wherein I grant myself much t'abuse, So shamefully to seek t'avoid my death.
seed 43: T51 · seed 44: T48 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
This Anthony can say is true, And Cleopatra knowes tis so, By th'experience of their woe. Shee can say, shee neuer knew But that iust found pleasures new, And was neuer satis-fide: Hee can say by proofe of toyle, Ambition is a Vulture vile, That feedes vpon the hart of pride: And findes no rest when all is tride. For worlds cannot confine the one, Th'other, listes and bounds hath none. And both subuert the minde, the state, Procure destruction, enuie, hate. And now when all this is prou'd vaine, Yet Opinion leaues not heere, But sticks to Cleopatra neere. Perswading now, how she shall gaine Honour by death, and fame attaine. And what a shame it were to liue, Her kingdome lost, her Louer dead: And so with this perswasion led, Dispayre doth such a courage giue, That naught els can her minde relieue. Nor yet diuert her from that thought: To this conclusion all is brought. This is that rest this vaine world lends, To end in death that all thing ends. HOW deepely Arius am I bounde to thee, That sau'dst frō death this wretched life of mine: Obtayning Caesars gentle grace for mee, When I of all helps els dispayr'd but thine? Although I see in such a wofull state, Life is not that which should be much desir'd: Sith all out glories come to end theyr date, Our Countries honour and our owne expir'd. Now that the hand of wrath hath ouer-gone vs, Liuing (as'twere) in th'armes of our dead mother, With blood vnder our feete ruine vpon vs, And in a Land most wretched of all other, When yet we reckon life our deerest good. And so we liue, we care not how we liue: So deepe we seele impressed in our blood, That touch which nature with our breath did giue. And yet what blasts of words hath learning found, To blow against the feare of death and dying? What comforts vnsicke Eloquence can sound, And yet all fayles vs in the poynt of trying. For whilst we reason with the breath of safety, VVithout the compasse of destruction liuing: VVhat precepts shew wee then, what courage lofty In taxing others feares in counsell giuing? VVhen all thys ayre of sweet-contriued words, Prooues but weake armour to defend the hart. For when this lyfe, pale feare and terror boords, Where are our precepts then, where is our arte? O who is he that from himselfe can turne, That beares about the body of a man? Who doth not toyle and labour to adiorne The day of death, by any meanes he can? All this I speake to th'end my selfe t'excuse, For my base begging of a seruile breath, Wherein I graunt my selfe much t'abuse, So shamefully to seeke t'auoyd my death.