Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
What inhuman humanity is this, With such a cruel pity to oppress; To bring pale ghosts back from the fields of bliss, Yet to be plunged in th'Ocean of distress? O unkind kindness that by saving slays, And would with loveless love my love control. Ah, of this odious Sun th'unhappy rays Do clear mine eyes but to confound my soul. Dear daughter, strive your passions to restrain, lest that the torrent of your grief grow such, That it both carry you to' groundless a main, And him o'erwhelm for whom, ye mourn so much. No doubt but he, if we rest captives thus, Disdaining these indignities of ours, T'avenge himself in re-obtaining us Will hazard all his Oriental powers. But ah, what comfort can a wretch afford, Whose care-worn bread the word of woe contains? Yet though my heart would feign impugn my word, I hopeless speak of hope, t'appease her pains. Such consolations now came not in season, Since we must hold our grief the greatest good: Dissemble not your sorrow, we have reason Yea to sigh out our sprites and weep our blood. I wail my son. Stat. Reg. And I my husbands fall. I wail my father, and in him us all. No woe like mine, mine cannot be relieved. I wail his woe, who should my woe assuage, Who lives by me, by whom I should have lived, Sport of my youth, and pillar of mine age. No woe like mine, who faithful to my fere For love of him all others had forsaken. But what a fere? myself, or one more dear: Yet from myself my self by force am taken. No woe like mine, who borne a monarch child Thought that my birth good hap should heap upon me: Yet all my expectations are beguiled, And what I hoped in most hath most undone me. I mourn for him who in my womb was formed. I mourn for him in whom love me transformed. I mourn for him by whom I formed was. Shall I not see myself in that clear glass? Ah! shall I never in his joy rejoice? Ah! shall I never here his cheerful voice? Would God from death my death might him exeme. would God my life my lives life might redeem. Would God the life he gave him life might give. Must these grey hairs my sons green youth survive? I will prevent him and not live to languish. Can I remain behind to live in anguish? But whiles our wretched state we justly moan, We may lament this infant too a space, Who in mishap inferior were to none, If he could apprehend his tragic case. O then how can my heart but burst asunder, Whom nature moves most to bemoan his harms? I think I see the hosts of heaven all thunder On me, my spouse, and this babe in my arms.
nodes 668–725 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 11 of 34 in this edition
Length
486 words · 630 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.773 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
What inhumaine humanity is this, With ſuch a cruell pittie to oppreſſe; To bring pale ghoſtes backe from the fields of blis, Yet to be plung'd in th'Ocean of diſtreſſe? O vnkinde kindeneſſe that by ſauing ſlayes, And would with loueleſſe loue my loue controule. Ah, of this odious Sunne th'unhappie rayes Doe cleere mine eyes but to confound my ſoule. Deare daughter, ſtriue your paſſions to reſtraine, Leaſt that the torrent of your greefe grow ſuch, That it both carie you to'agroundleſſe maine, And him o'rewhelme for whom, ye mourne ſo much. No doubt but he, if we reſt captiues thus, Diſdaining theſe indignities of ours, T'auenge himſelfe in re-obtaining vs Will hazard all his Orientall pow'rs. But ah, what comfort can a wretch afforde, Whoſe care-worne bread the word of wo containes? Yet though my hart would faine impugne my worde, I hope-leſſe ſpeake of hope, t'appeaſe her paines. Such conſolations now came not in ſeaſon, Since we muſt hold our greefe the greateſt good: Diſſemble not your ſorrow, we haue reaſon Yea to ſigh out our ſprites and weepe our blood. I waile my ſonne. Stat. Reg. And I my husbandes fall. I waile my father, and in him vs all. No woe like mine, mine cannot be releeu'd. I waile his woe, who ſhould my woe aſſwage, Who liues by me, by whom I ſhould haue liu'd, Sport of my youth, and piller of mine age. No wo like mine, who faithful to my pheere For loue of him all others had forſaken. But what a pheere? my ſelfe, or one more deere: Yet from my ſelfe my ſelfe by force am taken. No wo like mine, who borne a Monarkes childe Thought that my birth good hap ſhould heape vpon me: Yet all my expectations are beguil'd, And what I hop'd in moſt hath moſt vndone me. I mourne for him who in my womb was form'd. I mourne for him in whō loue me transform'd. I mourne for him by whom I formed was. Shall I not ſee my ſelfe in that cleere glaſſe? Ah! ſhall I neuer in his ioy reioyce? Ah! ſhall I neuer here his cheerefull voice? Would God frō death my death might him exeeme. would God my life my liues life might redeeme. Would God the life he gaue him life might giue. Muſt theſe gray haires my ſons green youth ſuruiue? I will preuent him and not liue to languiſhe. Can I remaine behinde to liue in anguiſhe? But whiles our wretched ſtate we iuſtly mone, We may lament this infant too a ſpace, Who in miſhap inferiour were to none, If he could apprehend his tragic cace. O then how can my hart but burſt a-ſunder, Whom nature moues moſt to bemone his harmes? I thinke I ſee the hoſtes of heau'n all thunder On me, my ſpouſe, and this babe in my armes.