Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
The fainting hand falls trembling from the sword With this micidiall blow for shame grown red, Which straight the blood pursues with vengeance stored To drown the same with the same floods it shed. Who of those parties can the combat show, Where both but one, one both, struck and sustained, Or who shall triumph for this strange o'erthrow Whereas the Victor lost, the Vanquished gained. Cursed eyes, what sudden change hath drowned your lights, And made your mirthful objects mournful now? Ye that were still enured to stately sights Since seated under an Imperial brow. o'erclouded now with vapours of my cares, Are low thrown down unto a hell of grief, And have no prospect but my soul's despairs, The sad beholders of a rare mischief. O dead Adrastus I absolve thy ghost, Whose hand some secret destiny did charm, Thou hated by the Heavens, wert to thy cost An accidental Actor of our harm. No doubt some angry God hath laid this snare, And whilst thy purpose was the Boar to kill, Did intercept thy shaft amidst the air, And threw it at my Son against thy will. Ah Son! must I be witness of thy death, Who view thee thus with violence to bleed, And yet want one on whom to power my wrath, To take just vengeance for so vile a deed? This wretch whose guiltless mind hath cleared his hand Grieved for his error, lo, unforced doth fall, And not as one that did in danger stand, For he lived still till I forgave him all. Thus have I but the heavens on whom I may power forth the poison of my troubled spirit, In my soul's bitterness I'm forced to say, This seconds not their custom and my merit. WHy spend you (Sir) with sighs th'Imperious breath, Which nought but words of Sovereignty should breed, O weak revenge for one that's wronged by death, T'adorn his triumph with a mourning weed! This pale-faced tyrant, author of our ill, Who did, t'eclipse our joys, that black shaft borrow, Should you frame Trophies to his Tigrish will, And wear his livery, and succumb to sorrow? No, though he might this outward bliss o'erthrow, And you save you of all that's yours might spoil, Yet whilst of one that yields no sign you show, You triumph still, and he receives the foil. Th'o'erflowing humour that would drown your soul, In baser breasts might better be excused, Who want the sprite their passions to control, As from their birth still to subjection used. But you, in whom high Thoughts have been innate, To this decay how is your Virtue come? I blush to see my Sovereign so abated, And Majesty by misery o'ercome. Nor are my words out of a rocky mind, T'unnaturalize you, as not feeling smart, No, none can bar a Prince from being kind, Th'undoubted badge of an Heroic heart.
nodes 1552–1611 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 25 of 46 in this edition
Length
485 words · 643 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.840 (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)
The fainting hand falles trembling from the ſword With this micidiall blow for ſhame growne red, Which ſtrait the blood purſues with vengeance ſtor'd To drowne the ſame with the ſame floods it ſhed. Who of thoſe parties can the combate ſhow, Where both but one, one both, ſtrooke and ſuſtaind, Or who ſhall triumph for this ſtrange ore'throw Whereas the Victor loſt, the Vanquiſh'd gaind. Curſde eies, what ſudden change hath drownd your lights, And made your mirthfull obiects mournfull now? Ye that were ſtill inurde to ſtately ſights Since ſeated vnder an Imperiall brow. O'reclouded now with vapours of my cares, Are low throwne downe vnto a hell of griefe, And haue no proſpect but my ſoules deſpaires, The ſad beholders of a rare miſchiefe. O dead Adrastus I abſolue thy ghoſt, Whoſe hand ſome ſecret deſtinie did charme, Thou hated by the Heau'ns, wert to thy coſt An accidentall Actor of our harme. No doubt ſome angrie God hath layd this ſnare, And whilſt thy purpoſe was the Boare to kill, Did intercept thy ſhaft amidſt the aire, And threw it at my Sonne againſt thy will. Ah Sonne! muſt I be witneſſe of thy death, Who view thee thus with violence to bleed, And yet want one on whom to powre my wrath, To take iuſt vengeance for ſo vile a deed? This wretch whoſe guiltleſſe mind hath cleard his hand Grieu'd for his error, loe, vnforcd doth fall, And not as one that did in danger ſtand, For he liu'd ſtill till I forgaue him all. Thus haue I but the heau'ns on whom I may Powre forth the poyſon of my troubled ſpirite, In my ſoules bitterneſſe I'm forcd to ſay, This ſeconds not their cuſtome and my merite. WHy ſpend you (Sir) with ſighs th'Imperious breath, Which nought but words of Soueraigntie ſhould breed, O weake reuenge for one that's wrongd by death, T'adorne his triumph with a mourning weed! This pale-fac'd tyrant, author of our ill, Who did, t'ecclypſe our Ioyes, that blacke ſhaft borrow, Should you frame Trophees to his Tigriſh will, And weare his liuery, and ſuccumbe to ſorrow? No, though he might this outward bliſſe o're-throw, And you ſaue you of all that's yours might ſpoyle, Yet whilſt of one that yields no ſigne you ſhow, You triumph ſtill, and he receiues the foyle. Th'o're-flowing humor that would drowne your ſoule, In baſer breaſts might better be excuſde, Who want the ſprite their paſſions to controule, As from their birth ſtill to ſubiection vſde. But you, in whom high Thoughts haue been innate, To this decay how is your Vertue come? I bluſh to ſee my Soueraigne ſo abated, And Maieſtie by miſerie o'recome. Nor are my words out of a rockie mind, T'unnaturallize you, as not feeling ſmart, No, none can barre a Prince from being kind, Th'undoubted badge of an Heroick hart.