Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
I grant what you allege, and more, is true, I have unto the height of hatred run, A blood-stained Wretch, not worthy for to view The rolling Circles, nor the rayie Sun. I'll never strive to cloak my foul abuses, So for to make my forfeit to seem less, And paint my fault with imperfect excuses, 'tis greater far than words can well express. Nor go I thus to aggravate my crime, And damn myself to be absolved by others; No, no, such Rhetoric comes out of time, I'll not survive his death, as erst my brothers. Whose unkind fall if I had followed straight, As then indeed I died to all delight, I had not groaned charged with this inward weight, But slept with shadows in eternal night. Yet must I die at last, though late grown wise, This in my mind most discontentment breeds, A thousand torturing deaths cannot suffice To plague condignly for so heinous deeds. Come, cause him, who the Spriteless body buries, Upon the Tomb to sacrifice my blood, No fitter offering for th'infernal Furies Then one, in whom they reigned while as he stood. In whom they oft infused their devilish rage, And in my bosom all their Serpents nestled, So that this hellish horror to assuage, I all my days have with disasters wrestled. I find Adrastus, when I deeply scaunce Th'effectual motives of this fatal cross, That not thy malice, but mine own mischance Hath been th'occasion of our bitter loss. Whilst barely with a superficial wit, We weigh the outside of such strange events, If but the mediate means our judgements hit, We search not the first cause, this much contents. When such prodigious accidents fall out, Though they amaze our minds, and so they must, The ground of all comes from ourself no doubt, Ah! man hath sinned, the heavens are always just. Now when I search the secrets of my soul, And rip the corners of my corrupt mind, Mark of my former life th'offensive scroll, And do examine how I was inclined, O then I see the angry hosts of heaven Come girt with flames to plague for my offences, Which once no doubt will with the world be even, And judge our thoughts, words, acts, and vain pretences. Son, 'tis my pride that hath procured thy fall, I'm guilty of thy blood, I gave the wound Which was thy death, and whose remembrance shall My life each day with many deaths confound. Then injust Stars, your statutes I contemn; O! if I were confronted with the gods, I would their partial providence condemn, That in such sort do exercise their rods. Ah! my sons death doth show their judgement nought, What could he perpetrate against such Powers? Should he have suffered for his Father's fault? Whom without cause their wrong-spent wrath devours. Now all the world those deities may despise, Which plague the guiltless, and the guilty spare: Cease hapless man t'outrage thyself thus ways; I pardon thee, and pity thy despair.
nodes 1428–1491 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 23 of 46 in this edition
Length
505 words · 678 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.831 (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)
I grant what you alledge, and more, is true, I haue vnto the height of hatred runne, A blood-ſtaind Wretch, not worthy for to view The rolling Circles, nor the rayie Sunne. I'le neuer ſtriue to cloake my foule abuſes, So for to make my forfeit to ſeeme leſſe, And paint my fault with imperfect excuſes, T'is greater farre then words can wel expreſſe. Nor go I thus to aggrauate my crime, And damne my ſelfe to be abſolu'd by others; No, no, ſuch Rhetoricke comes out of time, I'le not ſuruiue his death, as earſt my brothers. Whoſe vnkind fall if I had followd ſtraight, As then indeed I dyed to all delight, I had not groan'd chargd with this inward waight, But ſlept with ſhadows in eternall night. Yet muſt I die at laſt, though late growne wiſe, This in my minde moſt diſcontentment breedes, A thouſand tort'ring deaths cannot ſuffiſe To plague condignely for ſo haynous deedes. Come, cauſe him, who the Spriteleſſe body buries, Vpon the Tombe to ſacrifice my blood, No fitter offring for th'infernall Furies Then one, in whom they raign'd while as he ſtood. In whom they oft infuſde their diu'liſh rage, And in my boſom all their Serpents neſtled, So that this helliſh horror to aſſwage, I all my dayes haue with diſaſters wreſtled. I find Adraſtus, when I deepely ſcaunce Th'effectuall motiues of this fatall croſſe, That not thy malice, but mine owne miſchaunce Hath been th'occaſion of our bitter loſſe. Whilſt barely with a ſuperficiall wit, We weigh the out-ſide of ſuch ſtrange euents, If but the mediate meanes our iudgements hit, We ſearch not the firſt cauſe, this much contents. When ſuch prodigious accidents fall out, Though they amaze our minds, and ſo they muſt, The ground of all comes from our ſelfe no doubt, Ah! man hath ſin'd, the heau'ns are alwayes iuſt. Now when I ſearch the ſecrets of my ſoule, And rip the corners of my corrupt minde, Marke of my former life th'offenciue ſcroule, And do examine how I was inclinde, O then I ſee the angry hoſts of heauen Come girt with flames to plague for my offences, Which once no doubt will with the world be euen, And iudge our thoughts, words, acts, and vaine pretences. Sonne, t'is my pride that hath procurde thy fall, I'm guiltie of thy blood, I gaue the wound Which was thy death, and whoſe remembrance ſhall My life each day with many deaths confound. Then iniuſt Stars, your ſtatutes I contemne; O! if I were confronted with the gods, I would their partiall prouidence condemne, That in ſuch ſort do exerciſe their rods. Ah! my Sonnes death doth ſhew their iudgement naught, What could he perpetrate againſt ſuch Powres? Should he haue ſuffred for his Fathers fault? Whom without cauſe their wrong-ſpent wrath deuours. Now all the world thoſe deities may deſpiſe, Which plague the guiltleſſe, and the guiltie ſpare: Ceaſe haples man t'outrage thy ſelfe thus waies; I pardon thee, and pitie thy deſpaire.