Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T60: caesar, rome, emperor, empire, honour, lord, lucius, great, palsgrave, kings.
Why must her issue pay the price of that? The price is life that they are rated at. Caesario to, issued of Caesar's blood? Plurality of Caesars are not good. Alas what hurt procures his feeble arm? Not for it doth, but that it may do harm. Then when it offers hurt, repress the same, 'tis best to quench a spark before it flame. 'tis in human, an innocent to kill. Such innocents, seldom remain so still. And sure his death may best procure our peace, Competitors the subject dearly buys: And so that our affliction may surcease, Let great men be the people's sacrifice. But see where Caesar comes himself, to try And work the mind of our distressed Queen, To apprehend some falsed hope: whereby She might be drawn to have her fortune seen. But yet I think, Rome will not see that face (That quell her champions,) blush in base disgrace. WHat Cleopatra, dost thou doubt so much Of Caesar's mercy, that thou hidest thy face? Or dost thou think, thy' offences can be such, That they surmount the measure of our grace? O Caesar, not for that I fly thy fight My soul this sad retire of sorrow chose: But that my' oppressed thoughts abhorring light, Like best in darkness, my disgrace t'enclose. And here to these close limits of despair, This solitary horror where I bide: Caesar, I thought no Roman should repair, More after him, who here oppressed dyde. Yet now, here at thy conquering feet I lie, Poor captive soul, that never thought to bow: Whose happy foot of rule and majesty, Stood late on that same ground thou standest now. Rise Queen, none but thyself is cause of all. And yet, would all were but thine own alone: That others ruin had not with thy fall Brought Rome her sorrows, to my triumphs moan. For breaking off the league of love and blood. Thou mak'st my winning joy a gain unpleasing: Sith th'eye of grief must look into our good, Thorough the horror of our own bloodshedding. And all, we must attribute unto thee. To me? Caesar what should a woman do Oppressed with greatness? What was it for me To contradict my Lord, being bent thereto? I was by love, by fear, by weakness, made An instrument to such designs as these. For when the Lord of all the Orient bade, Who but obeyed? who was not glad to please? And how could I withdraw my succouring hand, From him that had my heart, or what was mine? Th'interest of my faith in straightest band, My love to his most firmly did combine.
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)
Why must her issue pay the price of that? The price is life that they are rated at. Caesario to, issued of Caesars blood? Pluralitie of Caesars are not good. Alas what hurt procures his feeble arme? Not for it dooth, but that it may doe harme. Then when it offers hurt, represse the same, Tis best to quench a sparke before it flame. Tis in humane, an innocent to kill. Such innocents, sildome remaine so still. And sure his death may best procure our peace, Competitors the subiect deerely buies: And so that our affliction may surcease, Let geat men be the peoples sacrifice. But see where Caesar comes himselfe, to try And worke the mind of our distressed Queene, To apprehend some falsed hope: whereby Shee might be drawne to haue her fortune seene. But yet I thinke, Rome will not see that face (That quel her chāpions,) blush in base disgrace. WHat Cleopatrae, doost thou doubt so much Of Caesars mercy, that thou hid'st thy face? Or doost thou think, thy' offences can be such, That they surmount the measure of our grace? O Caesar, not for that I flye thy fight My soule this sad retyre of sorrow chose: But that my' oppressed thoughts ab horring light, Like best in darknes, my disgrace t'inclose. And heere to these close limmits of dispaire, This solitary horror where I bide: Caesar, I thought no Roman should repaire, More after him, who heere oppressed dyde. Yet now, heere at thy conquering feete I lye, Poore captiue soule, that neuer thought to bow: VVhose happy foote of rule and maiestie, Stoode late on yt same ground thou standest now. Rise Queene, none but thy selfe is cause of all. And yet, would all were but thyne owne alone: That others ruine had not with thy fall Brought Rome her sorowes, to my tryumphs mone. For breaking off the league of loue and blood. Thou mak'st my winning ioy a gaine vnpleasing: Sith th'eye of griefe must looke into our good, Thorow the horror of our owne blood-shedding. And all, we must attribute vnto thee. To mee? Caesar what should a woman doe Opprest with greatnes? What was it for mee To contradict my Lord, beeing bent thereto? I was by loue, by feare, by weakenes, made An instrument to such disseignes as these. For when the Lord of all the Orient bade, Who but obeyd? who was not glad to please? And how could I with-draw my succouring hand, From him that had my hart, or what was mine? Th'intrest of my faith in straightest band, My loue to his most firmely did combine.