Alexander, William · published 1637 · first performed or written 1603 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 444 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Behold how grief hath her of sense bereft, Whilst breath for passage struggling is with groans, No will, nor power to live, just grief hath left, Since what she value vanished is at once. Ah! shall I see (no, let me first be blind) That body breathless, which I brought to light? Where would my soul a force sufficient find That could encounter with so sad a sight? O flinty heart! what hinders thee to break, Since (crushed with cares) a stranger to repose? Why partest thou not (poor soul) that whilst I speak In opening of my lips, mine eyes may close? This heritage of death, this withered stock Is but a place appointed for despairs, A torture to itself, a stumbling block, Whose aged furrows fertile are in cares. Once for good Fortunes, now for bad designed, (To state betrayed) drawn forth from calm repose, To have been happy most afflicts my mind, Who, raised to fall, got much, the more to lose. Ah me! malicious fates have done me wrong, Who first come to the world, should first departed, And ah! why should the old o're-live the young? This Nature wrongs by a preposterous art; Ah! why should Death so indiscreet be found To spare a caitive, and to spoil a Prince? My half-dead body, bending to the ground, Through grief is grown ripe for the grave long since. WHat makes vain worldlings so to swell with pride, Who come of th'earth, and soon to th'earth return? So hellish furies with their firebrands burn Proud and ambitious men, that they divide Them from themselves, and so turmoil their minds; That all their time they study still How to content a boundless will, Which never yet a full contentment finds; Who so this flame within his bosom smothers, He many fancies doth contrive, And even forgets himself alive, To be remembered after death by others; Thus while he is, his pains are never ended, That whilst he is not, he may be commended. What can this help the happiness of Kings So to subdue their Neighbours as they do? And make strange Nations tributaries too? The greater state, the greater trouble brings; Their pomps and triumphs stand them in no stead; Their Arches, Tombs, Pyramids high, And statues are but vanity: They die, and yet would live in what is dead; And while they live, we see their glorious actions Oft wrested to the worst, and all their life Is but a stage of endless toil, and strife, Of tumults, uproars, mutinies, and factions; They rise with fear, and lie with danger down, Huge are the cares which wait upon a Crown.
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)
Behold how grieſe hath her of ſenſe bereft, Whil'ſt breath for paſſage ſtrugling is with grones, No will, nor pow'r to live, juſt griefe hath left, Since what ſhe value vaniſh'd is at once. Ah! ſhall I ſee (no, let me firſt be blinde) That body breathleſſe, which I brought to light? Where would my ſoule a force ſufficient finde That could encounter with ſo ſad a ſight? O flinty heart! what hinders thee to breake, Since (cruſh'd with cares) a ſtranger to repoſe? Why part'ſt thou not (poore ſoule) that whil'ſt I ſpeake In opening of my lips, mine eyes may cloſe? This heritage of death, this wither'd ſtocke Is but a place appointed for deſpaires, A torture to it ſelfe, a ſtumbling block, Whoſe aged furrows fertile are in cares. Once for good Fortunes, now for bad deſign'd, (To ſtate betray'd) drawne forth from calme repoſe, To have beene happie moſt afflicts my minde, Who, rais'd to fall, got much, the more to loſe. Ah me! malitious fates have done me wrong, Who firſt come to the world, ſhould firſt depart, And ah! why ſhould the old o're-live the yong? This Nature wrongs by a prepoſt'rous art; Ah! why ſhould Death ſo indiſcreet be found To ſpare a caitive, and to ſpoyle a Prince? My halfe-dead body, bending to the ground, Through griefe is grown ripe for the grave long ſince. WHat makes vaine worldlings ſo to ſwell with pride, Who come of th'earth, and ſoone to th'earth returne? "So helliſh furies with their fire-brands burne "Proud and ambitious men, that they divide "Them from themſelves, and ſo turmoyle their mindes; "That all their time they ſtudy ſtill "How to content a boundleſſe will, "Which never yet a full contentment findes; "Who ſo this flame within his boſome ſmothers, "He many fancies doth contrive, "And even forgets himſelfe alive, "To be remembred after death by others; "Thus while he is, his paines are never ended, "That whil'ſt he is not, he may be commended. What can this help the happineſſe of Kings So to ſubdue their Neighbours as they do? And make ſtrange Nations tributaries too? "The greater ſtate, the greater trouble brings; Their pompes and triumphs ſtand them in no ſtead; Their Arches, Tombes, Pyramides high, And ſtatues are but vanity: They dye, and yet would live in what is dead; And while they live, we ſee their glorious actions Oft wreſted to the worſt, and all their life Is but a ſtage of endleſſe toyle, and ſtrife, Of tumults, uproares, mutinies, and factions; "They riſe with feare, and lye with danger downe, "Huge are the cares which wait upon a Crowne.