Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Dear image of myself, in whom I live, Thy shape shames not the greatness of thy Sire, But of thy birth clear evidence doth give: Thy sour-sweet sight adds coals to my desire. Thou that shouldst comfort most, tormentest thou me? Huge hosts of passions now my soul assembles. O how I grieve! and yet am glad to see Thee, though not him, whom thy sweet face resembles, Go, bear this babe from hence: a wound too deep Makes in my breast compassion of his part: Yet let him stay; I joy to hear him weep: This motherly affection melts my heart. Of many woes this last is not the least, That un-begun thy glory must be ended; Thy fortune's Sun, my Son, set in the East, While thy fair-rising all the world attended. Ah! must this innocent taste of mishap, Whose tender age cannot discern his state, And be thus plagued, yea in his nurse's lap Inherit woe by birth? Ah cruel fate. If thou couldst hope, what great hopes hast thou lost That art defrauded of so fair a throne? Ah in thy cradle must I see thee crossed, Whom I designed so great when we were gone? Yet happy hapless child, thou canst not know From whence the fountain of our sorrow flows, Nor what it is for to be high, or low, Nor on what thorn the rose of honour grows. Yet hast thou felt the prick before the smell. Is this the benefit thy birthright brings Here in constrained captivity to dwell? Then better not be borne, then come of Kings. O what a noise is that that doth affright me? I trow to interrupt these tears of mine, lest that such sad lamentings should delight me, They will not let me plain, yet make me pine. Or is it some that doth condole our case, And comes with pity moved to see us pined, And to behold how we can death embrace, Death sovereign salve of a diseased mind? By many signs we may ourselves assure, 'Tis Alexander, whom we longed not for. What? ah I die! and must my eye endure Th'upbraiding object which I most abhor? Suppress such speeches now, lest all go wrong. We are environed with outrageous hosts: And weakness must give place unto the strong: For victors rage, whenas the vanquished hosts. I will entreat him to, not for myself (Mine old-age is become to death a debtor) But that you may eschew this wrackful shelf, Whose flower pot faded yet deserveth better. No, if you needs will sue, sue for my grave: I will not be indebted to him living: I rather death should once the mastery have, Then I should die so oft with death still striving. RIse mother, rise, remove those causeless fears: I come t'appease nor to procure your woe: The honour which I owe those aged hears Permits me not to see you prostrate so.
nodes 726–785 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 12 of 34 in this edition
Length
491 words · 645 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.820 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Deere image of my ſelfe, in whom I liue, Thy ſhape ſhames not the greatneſſe of thy Syre, But of thy birth cleere euidence doth giue: Thy ſoure-ſweete ſight addes coales to my deſire. Thou that ſhouldſt comfort moſt, tormēt'ſt thou me? Huge hoſtes of paſſions now my ſoule aſſembles. O how I grieue! and yet am glad to ſee Thee, though not him, whom thy ſweet face reſembles, Goe, beare this babe from hence: a wound too deep Makes in my breaſt compaſſion of his part: Yet let him ſtay; I ioy to heare him weepe: This motherly affection melts my hart. Of many woes this laſt is not the leaſt, That vn-begun thy glorie muſt be ended; Thy fortunes Sunne, my Sonne, ſet in the Eaſt, While thy faire-ryſing all the world attended. Ah! muſt this innocent taſte of miſhap, Whoſe tender age cannot diſcerne his ſtate, And be thus plagu'd, yea in his nurſes lap Inherite woe by birth? Ah cruell fate. If thou could'ſt hope, what great hopes haſt thou loſt That art defrauded of ſo faire a throne? Ah in thy cradle muſt I ſee thee croſt, Whom I deſign'd ſo great when we were gone? Yet happy hapleſſe childe, thou canſt not know From whence the fountaine of our ſorrow flowes, Nor what it is for to be hie, or low, Nor on what thorne the roſe of honour growes. Yet haſt thou felt the pricke before the ſmell. Is this the benefit thy birth-right brings Heere in conſtrain'd captiuitie to dwell? Then better not be borne, then come of Kings. O what a noiſe is that that doth affright me? I trow to interrupt theſe teares of mine, Leaſt that ſuch ſad lamentings ſhould delight me, They will not let me plaine, yet make me pine. Or is it ſome that doth condole our cace, And commes with pittie moou'd to ſee vs pyn'd, And to beholde how we can death imbrace, Death ſoueraigne ſalue of a diſeaſed minde? By many ſignes we may our ſelues aſſure, 'Tis Alexander, whom we long'd not for. What? ah I die! and muſt my eye indure Th'vpbraiding obiect which I moſt abhorre? Suppreſſe ſuch ſpeaches now, leaſt all go wrong. We are enuiron'd with outrageous hoſtes: And weakneſſe muſt giue place vnto the ſtrong: For Victours rage, when as the vanquiſh'd boſtes. I will entreat him to, not for my ſelfe (Mine olde-age is become to death a debter) But that you may eſchew this wrackfull ſhelfe, Whoſe flowre pot faded yet deſerueth better. No, if you needs will ſue, ſue for my graue: I will not be indebted to him liuing: I rather death ſhould once the maiſtrie haue, Then I ſhould die ſo oft with death ſtill ſtriuing. RIſe mother, riſe, remoue thoſe cauſles feares: I come t'appeaſe nort to procure your woe: The honour which I owe thoſe aged heares Permits me not to ſee you proſtrate ſo.