Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T17: tamburlaine, persian, cyrus, king, mahomet, arms, mighty, assyrian, thousand, army.
Then weary to be well, and tired of rest, T'engender discord I th'occasion sought, Yet for to cloak th'ambition of my breast, Did with devotion long disguise my thought. I send of all the Oracles to inquire, What was to come of this intended war, Who said as seemed to second my desire, That I a mighty Monarchy should mar. Those doubtful words I wresting to my will, In hope t'expugn th'imperious Persians' powers, Did ruin quite whilst all succeeded ill, What many a age had conquered in few hours. And this most wondrous is, because most strange, I who disdained an equal of before, (What cannot Fortune do, being bent to change) Must a Superior now serve, and adore? What eye not fraught with scorn my state surveys? Whom Fates have forced for to o'erlive my shame, And in mine enemy's danger for some days, But borrowed with the interest of my fame. Though this sweet gale of life-bestowing winds, Would seem a favour (so it seems to some, Who by the baseness of their muddy minds, Show of th'ignoble multitude they come) I scorn unlike myself for to be seen, Though to my comfort this appeared to tend, As if that all misfortunes past had been, A Tragic entry to a Comic end. Of all that plague my state the greatest pest It is base life, that faints from th'earth to sever, And hath in one united all the rest, To make me die each day, and yet die never. Life in my breast no comfort can infuse, An enemy's gift could never come for good, It but gives time of misery to muse, And bathe my sorrows in a bitter flood. Ah! had my breath evanished with my bliss, And closed the windows that give light to life, I had not apprehended as it is The height of my mishaps that now are rife: Whilst with a thousand sighs I call to mind, The death of Atis and mine own decay, My sprite in such perplexity I find, That to lives passage I would feign make way. But since I see reserved for further spite, I with sad thoughts must burden yet my soul, My memory t'a melancholious sprite, Of all my troubles shall present a scroll. Of which while as th'account I go to cast, Th'enormities still numbering of my fate, I'll whiles look back upon my pleasure's part, And by them balance my (now) hapless state. IS't not a wonder for to see How by experience each man reeds, In practised volumes penned by deeds, Th'inconstant courses that there be, Yet whilst ourselves continue free, We ponder oft, but not apply, That precious oil, which we might buy Best with the price of others pains; Which as what nought to us pertains, To use we will not condescend, As if we might the Fates defy, While as untouched our state remains: But soon the heavens a change may send, No perfect bliss before the end.
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)
Then wearie to be well, and tir'd of reſt, T'engender diſcord I th'occaſion ſought, Yet for to cloake th'ambition of my breſt, Did with deuotion long diſguiſe my thought. I ſend of all the Oracles to inquire, What was to come of this intended warre, Who ſaid as ſeem'd to ſecond my deſire, That I a mightie Monarchie ſhould marre. Thoſe doubtfull words I wreſting to my will, In hope t'expugne th'impertous Perſians powres, Did ruine quite whilſt all ſucceeded ill, What many a age had conquer'd in few howres. And this moſt wondrous is, becauſe moſt ſtrange, I who diſdain'd an equall of before, (What cannot Fortune do, being bent to change) Muſt a Superior now ſerue, and adore? What eye not fraught with ſcorne my ſtate ſurueyes? Whom Fates haue forc'd for to o're-liue my ſhame, And in mine enemies danger for ſome dayes, But borrowd with the intreſt of my fame. Though this ſweet gale of life-beſtowing windes, Would ſeeme a fauour (ſo it ſeemes to ſome, Who by the baſeneſſe of their muddie mindes, Shew of th'ignoble multitude they come) I ſcorne vnlike my ſelfe for to be ſeene, Though to my comfort this appeard to tend, As if that all misfortunes paſt had beene, A Tragicke entrie to a Comicke end. Of all that plague my ſtate the greateſt peſt It is baſe life, that faints from th'earth to ſeuer, And hath in one vnited all the reſt, To make me die each day, and yet die neuer. Life in my breaſt no comfort can infuſe, An enemies gift could neuer come for good, It but giues time of miſerie to muſe, And bathe my ſorrowes in a bitter flood. Ah! had my breath euaniſh'd with my bliſſe, And cloſde the windowes that giue light to life, I had not apprehended as it is The height of my miſhaps that now are rife: Whilſt with a thouſand ſighes I call to mind, The death of Atis and mine owne decay, My ſprite in ſuch perplexitie I find, That to liues paſſage I would faine make way. But ſince I ſee reſeru'd for further ſpight, I with ſad thoughts muſt burden yet my ſoule, My memorie t'a melancholious ſpright, Of all my troubles ſhall preſent a ſcroule. Of which while as th'account I go to caſt, Th'enormities ſtill numbring of my fate, I'le whiles looke back vpon my pleaſures part, And by them ballance my (now) hapleſſe ſtate. IS't not a wonder for to ſee How by experience each man reedes, In practiz'd volumes pen'd by deeds, Th'inconstant courſes that there bee, Yet whilſt our ſelues continue free, We ponder oft, but not apply, That pretious oyle, which we might buy Beſt with the price of others paines; Which as what nought to vs pertaines, To vſe we will not condiſcend, As if we might the Fates defye, While as vntouch'd our ſtate remaines: But ſoone the heau'ns a change may ſend, No perfect bliſſe before the end.