Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
A golden Crown doth cover leaden cares: The Sceptre cannot lull their thoughts asleep, Whose breasts are fraught with infinite despairs, Of which the vulgar wits sounds not the deep. The Bramble grows, although it be obscure; While mighty Cedars feel the blustering winds: And mild Plebeian spirits may lieu secure, While mighty tempests toss imperial minds. What are our days, but dreams, our reigns but trances, Whilst brainsick reaving with our Fortune's fever. We still are vexed with changes and mischances, Till death us both from life and sceptre sever? The vanity of greatness I have proved, And been the wonder of each gazing eye: Now that deceiving shadow is removed; And I my wretched state too late espy. Now bound with chains, (which though they be of gold, Diminish not my thraldom ought the more) When this preposterous honour I behold, It but upbraids me what I was before. And what was I before (though to each eye The form of my affliction was not known) But fettered in effect, while I seemed free, And in a labyrinth of labours thrown? Was I not bound to serve then all men's humour, Or to be censured with some Critic story; Still clogged with cares, as slought for every rumour. O glorious bondage, burden-able glory. That dignity which deified me late, And made the world do homage to my name, Now cannot succour my accursed state, But hath with my misfortune feathered same. My best was but a momentary bliss, Which leaves behind this everlasting sting, That of all woe no woe is like to this, To think I was, and am not now a King. No man with me in all accomplished joys, That satisfy the soul, could once compare: No man may match me now in sad annoys, And all the miseries that breed despair. Thrice Fortune did my gallant troops entrap, And I to fall did desperately stand; Yet could not be so happy in mishap, As for t'have died by some renowned hand. But for my greater grief, disgrace, and scorn, (The minds of men so apt are to deceive) They whom aloft my favours wings have borne, even they made me their master thus a slave. Ah, did not death in prison from me reave The sacred sovereign of my soul's desires, I wretch not being present to receive The last cold kiss that might assuage my fires? Yet o thrice happy thou, that hast not lived To bear a burden of this great disgrace. More than a thousand deaths this had thee grieved, To know I died, and died in such a case. Ah, do the pledges of our mutual love (The only comfort that the fates have left me) Rest prisoned yet? And may I not remove My mother thence? then is all bliss bereft me. My pains are more than with my pleasures even, Since first I in authority did enter. Was I exalted once up to the heaven, To be cast headlong down to mischiefs centre?
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)
A golden Crowne doth couer leaden cares: The Scepter cannot lulle their thoughts a-ſleepe, Whoſe breaſts are fraught with infinite diſpaires, Of which the vulgar wits ſounds not the deepe. The Bramble growes, although it be obſcure; While mightie Cedars feele the bluſtering windes: And milde Plebeian ſpirits may lieu ſecure, While mightie tempeſts toſſe imperiall mindes. What are our daies, but dreames, our raignes but trā ces, Whil'ſt brain-ſick reaving with our Fortunes feuer. We ſtill are vext with changes and miſchances, Till death vs both from life and ſcepter ſeuer? The vanitie of greatneſſe I haue proou'd, And beene the wonder of each gazing eye: Now that deceauing ſhaddow is remoou'd; And I my wretched ſtate too late eſpie. Now bound with chaines, (which though they be of gold, Diminiſh not my thraldome ought the more) When this prepoſterous honour I beholde, It but vpbraides me what I was before. And what was I before (though to each eye The forme of my affliction was not knowne) But fettred in effect, while I ſeem'd free, And in a labyrinth of labours throwne? Was I not bound to ſerue then all mens humour, Or to be cenſur'd with ſome Critick ſtorie; Still clog'd with cares, aſ ſlought for euery rumour. O glorious bondage, burthen-able glorie. That dignitie which deified me late, And made the world doe homage to my name, Now cannot ſuccour my accurſed ſtate, But hath with my miſ-fortune fethered ſame. My beſt was but a momentarie blis, Which leaues behinde this euerlaſting ſting, That of all woe no woe is like to this, To thinke I was, and am not now a King. No man with me in all accompliſh'd ioyes, That ſatisfie the ſoule, could once compare: No man may matche me now in ſad annoyes, And all the miſeries that breede diſpaire. Thriſe Fortune did my gallant troupes entrap, And I to fall did deſperately ſtand; Yet could not be ſo happie in miſhap, As for t'haue died by ſome renowmed hand. But for my greater griefe, diſgrace, and ſcorne, (The mindes of men ſo apt are to deceaue) They whome aloft my favours wings haue borne, Ev'n they made me their maiſter thus a ſlaue. Ah, did not death in priſon from me reaue The ſacred ſoueraigne of my ſoules deſires, I wretch not being preſent to receaue The laſt cold kiſſe that might aſſwage my fires? Yet ô thriſe happie thou, that haſt not liu'd To beare a burthen of this great diſgrace. More then a thouſand deaths this had thee grieu'd, To know I died, and died in ſuch a cace. Ah, doe the pledges of our mutuall loue (The onlie comfort that the fates haue left me) Reſt priſon'd yet? And may I not remooue My mother thence? then is all bliſſe bereft me. My paines are more then with my pleaſures ev'n, Since firſt I in authoritie did enter. Was I exalted once vp to the heau'n, To be caſt head-long downe to miſchiefes center?