Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
More I will use, if more I may prevail: backwinter comes but seldom forth abroad, But when he comes, he pincheth to the proof; Winter is mild, his son is rough and stern. Ovid could well write of my tyranny, When he was banished to the frozen Zone. And banished be thou from my fertile bounds. Winter, imprison him in thy dark Cell, Or with the winds, in bellowing caves of brass, Let stern Hipporlatos lock him up safe, ne'er to peep forth, but when thou faint and weak Want'st him to aid thee in thy regiment. I will peep forth, thy kingdom to supplant: My father I will quickly freeze to death, And then sole Monarch will I sit and think, How I may banish thee, as thou dost me. I see my downfall written in his brows: Convey him hence, to his assigned hell. Fathers are given to love their sons too well. No by my troth, nor mothers neither, I am sure I could never find it. This backwinter plays a railing part to no purpose, my small learning finds no reason for it, except as a backwinter or an after winter is more raging tempestuous, and violent than the beginning of Winter, so he brings him in stamping and raging as if he were mad, when his father is a jolly mild quiet old man, and stands still and does nothing. The court accepts of your meaning; you might have writ in the margin of your playbook, Let there be a few rushes laid in the place where backwinter shall tumble, for fear of raying his clothes: or set down, Enter backwinter, with his boy, bringing a brush after him, to take off the dust if need require. But you will ne'er have any wardrobe wit while you live. I pray you hold the book well, we be not nonplus in the latter end of the play. This is the last stroke, my tongues clock must strike, My last will, which I will that you perform: My crown I have disposed already of. Item, I give my withered flowers, and herbs, Unto dead corpses, for to deck them with, My shady walks to great men's servitors, Who in their master's shadows walk secure, My pleasant open air, and fragrant smells, To Croyden and the grounds abutting round, My heat and warmth to toiling labourers, My long days to bondmen, and prisoners, My short nights to young married souls, My drought and thirst, to drunkards quenchless throats, My fruits to Autumn my adopted heir, My murmuring springs, musicians of sweet sleep, To murmuring malcontents, with their well tuned cares, channeled in a sweet falling quatorzain, Do lull their ears asleep, listening themselves. And finally, O words, now cleanse your course, Unto Eliza that most sacred Dame, Whom none but Saints and Angels ought to name; All my fair days remaining, I bequeath
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)
More I wil vse, if more I may preuaile: Back-winter comes but seldome foorth abroad, But when he comes, he pincheth to the proofe; Winter is milde, his sonne is rough and sterne. Ouid could well write of my tyrranny, When he was banisht to the frozen Zoane. And banisht be thou frō my fertile bounds. Winter, imprison him in thy darke Cell, Or with the windes, in bellowing caues of brasse, Let sterne Hipporlatos locke him vp safe, Ne're to peepe foorth, but when thou faint and weake Want'st him to ayde thee in thy regiment. I will peepe foorth, thy kingdome to supplant: My father I will quickly freeze to death, And then sole Monarch will I sit and thinke, How I may banish thee, as thou doost me. I see my downefall written in his browes: Conuay him hence, to his assigned hell. Fathers are giuen to loue their sonnes too well. No by my troth, nor mothers neither, I am sure I could neuer finde it. This Back-winter playes a rayling part to no purpose, my small learning findes no reason for it, except as a Back-winter or an after winter is more raging tempestuous, and violent then the beginning of Winter, so he brings him in stamping and raging as if he were madde, when his father is a iolly milde quiet olde man, and stands still and does nothing. The court accepts of your meaning; you might haue writ in the margent of your play-booke, Let there be a fewe rushes laide in the place where Back-winter shall tumble, for feare of raying his cloathes: or set downe, Enter Back-winter, with his boy, bringing a brush after him, to take off the dust if need require. But you will ne're haue any ward-robe wit while you liue. I pray you holde the booke well, we be not nonplus in the latter end of the play. This is the last stroke, my toungs clock must strike, My last will, which I will that you performe: My crowne I haue disposde already of. Item, I giue my withered flowers, and herbes, Vnto dead corses, for to decke them with, My shady walkes to great mens seruitors, Who in their masters shadowes walke secure, My pleasant open ayre, and fragrant smels, To Croyden and the grounds abutting round, My heate and warmth to toyling labourers, My long dayes to bondmen, and prisoners, My short nights to young married soules, My drought and thirst, to drunkards quenchlesse throates, My fruites to Autumne my adopted heire, My murmuring springs, musicians of sweete sleepe, To murmuring male-contents, with their well tun'de cares, Channel'd in a sweete falling quaterzaine, Do lull their eares asleepe, listning themselues. And finally, O words, now clense your course, Vnto Eliza that most sacred Dame, Whom none but Saints and Angels ought to name; All my faire dayes remaining, I bequeath