Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T19: virtue, fortune, virtues, honour, fame, vice, envy, world, pride, great.
When first we fill with fruitful seed, The apt-conceiving womb of th'earth, And seem t'expel all fear of dearth, With the increase that it may breed, Yet dangers do our hopes exceed, The frosts may first with cold confound The tender greens that decked the ground, Whose wrath though th' April's smiles assuage, It hath t'abide th'Eolian rage, Which t'o'erpass whilst we attend, T'have Ceres' wandering tresses bound, The rains let from their cloudy cage, May spoil what we expect to spend, No perfect bliss before the end. Lo whilst the Vine-tree great with grapes With nectared liquour strives to kiss Th'embracing Elm not loved amiss: Those clusters lose their comely shapes, Whilst by the thunder burnt in heaps, All Bacchus' hopes fall down and perish: Thus many a thing doth fairly flourish, That no perfection can attain, And yet we worldlings are so vain, That our conceits we highly bend, If fortune but our spring-time cherish, Though we have storms for to sustain, Ere to the harvest our years ascend, No perfect bliss before the end. By all that in this world have place, There is a course that must be run, And let none judge himself t'have won, Till he have finished first his race, The forests through the which we trace, Breed ravenous beasts that do abhor us, And lie in wait for to devour us, Whilst brambles do our steps beguile, The fear of which though we exile, And to our mark with gladness tend, Than balls of gold are laid before us, To entertain our thoughts a while, And our good meaning to suspend, No perfect bliss before the end. Behold how Croesus long hath lived, Throughout this spacious world admired, And having all that he desired A thousand means of joy contrived, Yet now is suddenly deprived Of all that wealth, and strangely falls; For every thing his sprite appals; His sons decease, his country's loss; And his own State which huge storms toss: Thus he, who could not apprehend, Whilst as he slept in marble walls, No, nor imagine any cross, To bear all those, his breast must lend: No perfect bliss before the end. And we the Lydians that designed To reign over all that were about us, Behold how Fortune too doth flout us, And hath us utterly resigned: For we that had t'ourselves assigned A Monarchy, but knew not how, Yet thought to make the world to bow, That at our forces stood afraid; We, we, by whom these plots were laid, To think of bondage must descend, And bear the yoke of others now; O it is truth, that Solon said, While as he yet doth breath extend; No man is blessed, behold 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)
When firſt we fill with fruitfull ſeede, The apt-conceauing womb of th'earth, And ſeeme t'expell all feare of dearth, With the increaſe that it may breede, Yet dangers do our hopes exceede, The frosts may firſt with cold confound The tender greens that dect the ground, Whoſe wrath though th' Aprils ſmiles aſſwage, It hath t'abide th'Eolian rage, Which t'o'repaſſe whilſt we attend, T'haue Ceres wandring treſſes bound, The raines let from their cloudie cage, May ſpoyle what we expect to ſpend, No perfect bliſſe before the end. Lo whilſt the Vine-tree great with grapes With nectard liquor ſtriues to kiſſe Th'imbracing Elme not lou'd amiſſe: Thoſe clusters looſe their comely ſhapes, Whilſt by the thunder burnd in heapes, All Bacchus hopes fall downe and periſh: Thus many a thing doth fairely flouriſh, That no perfection can attaine, And yet we worldlings are ſo vaine, That our conceats we highlie bend, If fortune but our ſpring-time cherriſh, Though we haue ſtormes for to ſuſtaine, Ere to the harueſt our yeeres aſcend, No perfect bliſſe before the end. By all that in this world haue place, There is a courſe that muſt be runne, And let none iudge himſelfe t'haue wonne, Till he haue finiſh'd firſt his race, The forreſts through the which we trace, Breed rauenous beasts that do abhorre vs, And lye in wait for to deuoure vs, Whilſt brambles do our ſteps beguile, The feare of which though we exile, And to our marke with gladnes tend, Then balles of gold are laid before vs, To entertaine our thoughtes a while, And our good meaning to ſuſpend, No perfect bliſſe before the end. Behold how Croeſus long hath liu'd, Throughout this ſpatious world admir'd, And hauing all that he deſir'd A thouſand meanes of ioy contriu'd, Yet now is ſuddenly depriu'd Of all that wealth, and ſtrangely falles; For euery thing his ſprite appalles; His Sonnes deceaſe, his Countries loſſe; And his owne State which huge ſtormes toſſe: Thus he, who could not apprehend, Whilſt as he ſlept in marble walles, No, nor imagine any croſſe, To beare all thoſe, his breaſt must lend: No perfect bliſse before the end. And we the Lydians that deſign'd To raigne ouer all that were about vs, Behold how Fortune too doth flowt vs, And hath vs vtterly reſign'd: For we that had t'our ſelues aſsign'd A Monarchie, but knew not how, Yet thought to make the world to bow, That at our forces ſtood afraid; We, we, by whom theſe plots were laid, To thinke of bondage muſt deſcend, And beare the yoke of others now; O it is truth, that Solon ſaid, While as he yet doth breath extend; No man is blest, behold the end.