Alexander, William · published 1637 · first performed or written 1603 (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.75 · 520 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
I mourn for him who did give form to me. Shall I no more in him my Image see? Ah! shall I never in his joy rejoice? Ah! shall I never hear his cheerful voice? Would God my ruin might his ransom be. Would God my life my life's life might set free. Would God the life he gave him life might give. Must those grey hairs my Sons green youth survive? Lest twice made dye, I'll first prevent his fall. Shall I live last to suffer for you all? But whilst our wretched state we justly moon, 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 bursted be, Whom Nature moves most to bemoan his harms? I think the hosts of heaven I thundering see On me, my husband▪ and him in my arms: Dear Image of myself, in whom I live, Thy shape not shames the greatness of thy Sire, But of thy birth clear evidence doth give, Thy sowre-sweet sight adds coals to my desire. Thou who 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 Hath piereed me with compassion of his part, Yet let him stay, I joy to hear him weep; This mother's passion melts my bursting heart; Of many woes this last is not the least, That unbegun thy glory thus must end: Thy Fortune's Sun (my Son) set in the East, Whilst all the world thy rising did attend; Ah! must this Innocent taste of mishap, Whose tender age cannot discern his state, And thus be plagued, yea, in his Nurse's lap, Inherit woe by birth? ah cruel fate! If thou couldst hope, what great hopes hast thou lost Who art defrauded of so high a Throne? Ah! in thy cradle must I see thee crossed Whom I designed so great when we were gone? Yet happy hapless child, who canst not know From whence the fountain of our sorrow flows, Nor what it is that men call high, or low, Nor on what thorn the rose of honour grows. Yet hast thou felt the prick before the smoll; Is this the benefit thy birthright brings, A captive here in misery to dwell? Then better not be borne, nor come of Kings. O! what a noise is this that thus affrights? I think of tears the torrent to restrain, (Since souls when sad a just complaint delights) They still would plague, yet stop me to complain; Or is it one who doth lament our case, And is (a rare thing) in affliction kind? Who would behold how we can death embrace! Death sovereign physic for a troubled mind. By many signs we may ourselves assure 'tis Alexander whom we longed not for. What? ah I die, and must mine eyes endure That hateful object which I most abhor?
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 713–774 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 12 of 35 in this edition
Length
520 words · 661 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.749 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
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)
I mourn for him who did give forme to me. Shall I no more in him my Image ſee? Ah! ſhall I never in his joy rejoyce? Ah! ſhall I never heare his chearfull voyce? Would God my ruine might his ranſome be. Would God my life my lifes life might ſet free. Would God the life he gave him life might give. Muſt thoſe gray haires my Sonnes greene youth furvive? Leſt twiſe made dye, I'le firſt prevent his fall. Shall I live laſt to ſuffer for you all? But whil'ſt our wretched ſtate we juſtly mone, We may lament this Infant too a ſpace, Who in miſhap inferiour were to none, If he could apprehend his Tragicke caſe. O then how can my heart but burſted be, Whom Nature moves moſt to bemone his harmes? I thinke the hoſts of heaven I thund'ring ſee On me, my husband▪ and him in my armes: Deare Image of my ſelfe, in whom I live, Thy ſhape not ſhames the greatneſſe of thy Sire, But of thy birth cleare evidence doth give, Thy ſowre-ſweet ſight addes coals to my deſire. Thou who ſhould'ſt comfort moſt, torment'ſt thou me? Huge hoſts of paſſions now my ſoule aſſembles; O how I grieve, and yet am glad to ſee Thee, though not him, whom thy ſweet face reſembles! Go beare this Babe from hence, a wound too deep Hath piere'd me with compaſſion of his part, Yet let him ſtay, I joy to heare him weep; This mothers paſſion melts my burſting heart; Of many woes this laſt is not the leaſt, That unbegun thy glory thus muſt end: Thy Fortunes Sunne (my Sonne) ſet in the Eaſt, Whil'ſt all the world thy riſing did attend; Ah! muſt this Innocent taſte of miſhap, Whoſe tender age cannot diſcerne his ſtate, And thus be plagu'd, yea, in his Nurſes lap, Inherit woe by birth? ah cruell fate! If thou could'ſt hope, what great hopes haſt thou loſt Who art defrauded of ſo high a Throne? Ah! in thy cradle muſt I ſee thee croſt Whom I deſign'd ſo great when we were gone? Yet happie hapleſſe childe, who can'ſt not know From whence the fountaine of our ſorrow flows, Nor what it is that men call high, or low, Nor on what thorne the roſe of honour grows. Yet haſt thou felt the pricke before the ſmoll; Is this the benefit thy birth-right brings, A captive here in miſery to dwell? Then better not be borne, nor come of Kings. O! what a noiſe is this that thus affrights? I thinke of teares the torrent to reſtraine, (Since ſoules when ſad a juſt complaint delights) They ſtill would plague, yet ſtop me to complaine; Or is it one who doth lament our caſe, And is (a rare thing) in affliction kinde? Who would behold how we can death embrace! Death ſoveraigne phyſicke for a troubled minde. By many ſignes we may our ſelves aſſure T'is Alexander whom we long'd not for. What? ah I die, and muſt mine eyes endure That hatefull object which I moſt abhorre?