Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
By night I wish for day; by day for night; Yet wish far more, that none of both might be; But most of all, that banished from the light I were no more, their courses for to see. At night revolving my despaired estate, I go to sum with sighs my wonted joys, When in an agony, a grieved conceit Doth blot th'unperfect count with new annoys. When Sleep the eldest brother of pale Death, The Child of darkness, and Father of rest, In a free prison hath confined my breath, That it may vent, but not with words expressed. Then with my sprite thou enter'st for to speak With honeyed speeches to appease my grief, And my sad heart that laboured for to break, In this feigned comfort finds a while relief. Yea, it our souls remained united so, This late divorcement would not vex my mind, But when I waken, it augments my woe, Whilst this a dream, and me a wretch I find. O happy, if I had been happy never, But happier, if my happiness had lasted: Yet had I in this state chanced to persever, My days had with excessive joys soon wasted. Why waste I thus, whilst vainly I lament, The precious treasure of that swift Post Time? Ah! pardon me, (dear Love) for I repent My lingering here, my Fate, and not my crime. Since first thy body did enrich the Tomb, In this spoiled world, my eye no pleasure sees, And Atis, Atis, lo, I come, I come To be thy Mate, amongst the Myrtle trees. Lo all our time even from our birth, In nought but misery exceeds, For where we find a moment's mirth, A Month of mourning still succeeds, By all the evils that Nature breeds, Which daily do our sprites appall, Th'infirmities that frailty sends, The loss of it, that fortune lends: And such disasters as oft fall: Yet to far worse our states are thrall, Whilst wretched man with man contends, And every one his whole force bends, How to procure another's losses; But this torments us most of all, The mind of man, which many a fancy tosses, Doth forge unto itself a thousand crosses. O how the Soul with all her might Doth all her heavenly forces strain! How to attain unto the light Of Nature's wonders, that remain Hid from our eyes, we strive in vain To seek out things that are unsure: In Sciences to seem profound, We dive so deep we find no ground, And the more knowledge we procure, The more it doth our minds allure, Of mysteries the depth to sound: Thus our desires we never bound, Which by degrees thus drawn on still, The memory may not endure: But like the tubs that Danaus' daughters fill, Doth drink no faster than it's forced to spill.
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)
By night I wiſh for day; by day for night; Yet wiſh farre more, that none of both might bee; But moſt of all, that baniſhd from the light I were no more, their courſes for to ſee. At night revoluing my deſpaird eſtate, I go to ſumme with ſighs my wonted ioyes, When in an agonie, a grieu'd conceate Doth blot th'unperfect compt with new annoyes. When Sleepe the eldeſt brother of pale Death, The Child of darkeneſſe, and Father of reſt, In a free priſon hath confinde my breath, That it may vent, but not with words expreſt. Then with my ſprite thou enterſt for to ſpeake With honyed ſpeaches to appeaſe my griefe, And my ſad heart that labourd for to breake, In this fayn'd comfort finds a while reliefe. Yea, it our ſoules remaind vnited ſo, This late diuorcement would not vexe my mind, But when I waken, it augments my woe, Whilſt this a dreame, and me a wretch I find. O happy, if I had been happy neuer, But happier, if my happineſſe had laſted: Yet had I in this ſtate chanc'd to perſeuer, My dayes had with exceſſiue ioyes ſoone waſted. Why waſte I thus, whilſt vainely I lament, The precious treaſure of that ſwift Poſt Time? Ah! pardon me, (deare Loue) for I repent My lingring here, my Fate, and not my crime. Since firſt thy body did enrich the Tombe, In this ſpoild world, my eye no pleaſure ſees, And Atis, Atis, loe, I come, I come To be thy Mate, amongſt the Mirtle trees. LOe all our time euen from our birth, In nought but miſerie exceeds, For where we find a moments mirth, A Month of mourning ſtill ſucceeds, By all the euills that Nature breeds, Which daily do our ſprites appall, Th'infirmities that frailtie ſends, The loſse of it, that fortune lends: And ſuch diſasters as oft fall: Yet to farre worſe our ſtates are thrall, Whilst wretched man with man contends, And euery one his whole force bends, How to procure anothers loſſes; But this torments vs most of all, The mind of man, which many a fancie toſſes, Doth forge vnto it ſelfe a thouſand croſſes. O how the Soule with all her might Doth all her heau'nly forces ſtraine! How to attaine vnto the light Of Natures wonders, that remaine Hid from our eyes, we ſtriue in vaine To ſeeke out things that are vnſure: In Sciences to ſeeme profound, We diue ſo deepe we find no ground, And the more knowledge we procure, The more it doth our minds allure, Of mysteries the depth to ſound: Thus our deſires we neuer bound, Which by degrees thus drawne on ſtill, The memorie may not indure: But like the tubs that Danaus daughters fill, Doth drinke no faster then it's forc'd to ſpill.