Alexander, William · published 1637 · first performed or written 1603 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 515 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
O Dismal day detested be thy light, And would the Gods (but Gods neglect our case) The world were wrapped in a Cymmerian Night, That no proud eye might gaze on our disgrace. Why did the Heavens reserve my feeble age To make my burden more, when strength grows less? Can nothing but my harms their wrath assuage, Thus offered up on th'Altar of distress? Ah! have I spent my youth in pomp, and pleasure, And had my spring-time graced with pleasant flowers That th'autumn which should reap the Summer's treasure▪ Might be distempered with such stormy showers? And did smooth calms and Sunshines for a space, Make all my voyage through the world a sport, That I should fall when near to end my race, (And tossed with storms) even perish at my port? Yet for all this, were I exposed alone, The wretched object of Jove's thundering arms, I should not think I had just cause to moan, When I but wailed mine own, not others harms; Ah me! on those whom more than life I love The state-disturbing blasts of Fortune fall, Yet each of them some several loss doth move, But I in anguish bear a part with all: I suffered when I saw Oxatre slain, My loving Son, and most entirely loved; I died in Darius, when he tried in vain What Fates would do, yet still their hatred proved; The heavens to plague me more, yet make me breath, O rigour rare! what tortures rack my breast? Who feel the sour; but not the sweet of death, Still coursed, not killed, lest that should breed me rest; Yet, Iove, if this may dis-enflame thine ire, Let all thy lightning light upon my head, To be consumed with a celestial fire, Some comfort were, since that I must be dead. Leave mother those complaints, as fit for me, Who still must grieve my friends, and grace my foes: Whose fortune is so wretched still to be, That all the world may wonder at my woes. Lo, that dear Lord and treasure of my thought, Whose presence I my Paradise esteemed, To such a precipice is headlong brought, That he from ruin cannot be redeemed; Ah! on what prop can I repose my trust, When of his state I first the greatness ponder? Next, how his Diadem (drenched in the dust) Was Fortunes Trophy, and all Asia's wonder? He whose imperious speech the world respected, And as an Oracle had in regard, He vanquished now, and with contempt neglected, (Even as a supplicant) can scarce be heard; And yet I know this more doth grieve his soul Then all the harm which happened to his state, His power o'er me that any can control, Who (as his Idol) was adored of late; Shall he (pure quintessence of my best part) Then only testify the love he bears? No, by mine eyes I will distil my heart, And for his sake dissolve myself in tears; Would God my breast might still transparent be, That as through Crystal all might mark my mind,
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)
O Diſmall day deteſted be thy light, And would the Gods (but Gods neglect our caſe) The world were wrapt in a Cymmerian Night, That no proud eye might gaze on our diſgrace. Why did the Heavens reſerve my feeble age To make my burden more, when ſtrength grows leſſe? Could nothing but my harmes their wrath aſſwage, Thus offred up on th'Altar of diſtreſſe? Ah! have I ſpent my youth in pompe, and pleaſure, And had my ſpring-time grac'd with pleaſant flowres That th'Autumne which ſhould reape the Sommers treaſure▪ Might be diſtempred with ſuch ſtormy ſhowres? And did ſmooth calmes and Sunne-ſhines for a ſpace, Make all my voyage through the world a ſport, That I ſhould fall when neere to end my race, (And toſſ'd with ſtormes) even periſh at my port? Yet for all this, were I expos'd alone, The wretched object of Ioves thund'ring armes, I ſhould not thinke I had juſt cauſe to mone, When I but wail'd mine owne, not others harmes; Ah me! on thoſe whom more then life I love The ſtate-diſturbing blaſts of Fortune fall, Yet each of them ſome ſeverall loſſe doth move, But I in anguiſh beare a part with all: I ſuffred when I ſaw Oxatres ſlaine, My loving Sonne, and moſt entirely lov'd; I dy'd in Darius, when he try'd in vaine What Fates would do, yet ſtill their hatred prov'd; The heavens to plague me more, yet make me breath, O rigour rare! what tortures rack my breaſt? Who feele the ſowre; but not the ſweet of death, Still cours'd, not kill'd, leſt that ſhould breed me reſt; Yet, Iove, if this may diſ-enflame thine ire, Let all thy lightning light upon my head, To be conſum'd with a celeſtiall fire, Some comfort were, ſince that I muſt be dead. Leave mother thoſe complaints, as fit for me, Who ſtill muſt grieve my friends, and grace my foes: Whoſe fortune is ſo wretched ſtill to be, That all the world may wonder at my woes. Loe, that deare Lord and treaſure of my thought, Whoſe preſence I my Paradiſe eſteem'd, To ſuch a precipice is headlong brought, That he from ruine cannot be redeem'd; Ah! on what prop can I repoſe my truſt, When of his ſtate I firſt the greatneſſe ponder? Next, how his Diademe (drencht in the duſt) Was Fortunes Trophee, and all Aſia's wonder? He whoſe imperious ſpeech the world reſpected, And as an Oracle had in regard, He vanquiſh'd now, and with contempt neglected, (Even as a ſupplicant) can ſcarce be heard; And yet I know this more doth grieve his ſoule Then all the harme which happned to his ſtate, His pow'r ov'r me that any can controull, Who (as his Idoll) was ador'd of late; Shall he (pure quinteſſence of my beſt part) Then onely teſtifie the love he beares? No, by mine eyes I will diſtill my heart, And for his ſake diſſolve my ſelfe in teares; Would God my breaſt might ſtill tranſparant be, That as through Cryſtall all might marke my minde,