Alexander, William · published 1637 · first performed or written 1604 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 522 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
Life of my soul, how do such broken speeches, From troubled passions thus abruptly rise? I know (my love) thy love my mind o'erreaches: Affection (Schooled with fears) is too too wise; I go alongst the fields, for sport to range; Thy sighs do but my soul with sorrow fill; And pardon (dear) I find this wondrous strange, That thou beginst now to resist my will; If I trespass in aught against my duty, Which makes thee thus my constancy mistrust; Mistrust not yet the Chains of thine own beauty, Which bind all my desires, and so they must; Are we not now made one? such fears o'ercome, Though I would fly, myself my self do fetter, And if that I would fly, from whom? to whom? I can love none so well, none loves me better; Have pity of those pearls, (sweet eyes, souls pleasures) Lest they presage what thou wouldst not have done; The Heavens had not give me those precious treasures, Of such perfections to be spoiled so soon. THose who command above, High precedents of Heaven, By whom all things do move, As they have order given, What worldling can arise, Against them to repine? Whilst castelled in the skies, With providence divine; They force this peopled round, Their judgements to confess, And in their wrath confound Proud mortals who transgress The bounds to them assigned By Nature in their mind. Base brood of th'earth, vain man, Why brag'st thou of thy might? The Heavens thy courses scan, Thou walkest still in their sight; Ere thou wast borne, thy deeds Their registers dilate, And think that none exceeds The bounds ordained by fate; What Heavens would have thee to, Though they thy Ways abhor, That thou of force must do, And thou canst do no more: This reason would fulfil, Their work should serve their will. Are we not heirs of death, In whom there is no trust? Who tossed with restless breath, Are but a dram of dust; Yet fools when as we err, And heavens do wrath contract, If they a space defer Just vengeance to exact, Pride in our bosom creeps, And misinformes us thus, That Iove in pleasure sleeps, Or take no care of us: The eye of heaven beholds, What every heart enfoldes. The Gods digest no crime, Though they (delaying long) In the offender's time, Seem to neglect a wrong, Till others of their Race, Fill up the cup of wrath, Whom Ruin and disgrace, Long time attended hath; And Gyges' fault we fear, To Croesus' charge be laid, Which Iove will not forbear, Though it be long delayed: For, O! sometimes the Gods Must plague sin with sharp Rods. And lo how Croesus still, Tormented in his mind, Like to Reeds on a hill, Doth quake at every wind! Each step a terror brings; Dreams do by Night afflict him; And by day many things; All his Thoughts do convict him; He his Star would control, This makes ill not the worst, Whilst he wounds his own soul●, With apprehensions first: Man may his fate foresee, But not shun heavens decree.
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)
Life of my ſoule, how doe ſuch broken ſpeaches, From troubled paſſions thus abruptly riſe? I know (my love) thy love my minde o're-reaches: "Affection (Schoold with feares) is too too wiſe; I goe alongſt the fields, for ſport to range; Thy ſighes doe but my ſoule with ſorrow fill; And pardon (deare) I finde this wond'rous ſtrange, That thou beginſt now to reſiſt my will; If I treſpaſſe in ought againſt my dutie, Which makes thee thus my conſtancy miſtruſt; Miſtruſt not yet the Chains of thine own beauty, Which binde all my deſires, and ſo they muſt; Are wee not now made one? ſuch feares o'recome, Though I would flie, my ſelfe my ſelfe doe fetter, And if that I would flie, from whom? to whom? I can love none ſo well, none loves me better; Have pitty of thoſe pearles, (ſweet eyes, ſoules pleaſures) Leaſt they preſage what thou would'ſt not have done; The Heavens had not give me thoſe pretious treaſures, Of ſuch perfections to be ſpoil'd ſo ſoone. THoſe who command above, High preſidents of Heaven, By whom all things doe move, As they have order given, What worldling can ariſe, Againſt them to repine? Whilſt caſtell'd in the skies, With providence divine; They force this peopled round, Their judgements to confeſſe, And in their wrath confound Proud mortalls who tranſgreſſe The bounds to them aſſign'd By Nature in their mind. Baſe brood of th'earth, vaine man, Why brag'ſt thou of thy might? The Heavens thy courſes ſcan, Thou walk'ſt ſtill in their ſight; Ere thou waſt borne, thy deedes Their regiſters dilate, And thinke that none exceedes The bounds ordain'd by fate; What Heavens would have thee to, "Though they thy Wayes abhorre, "That thou of force muſt doe, "And thou canſt doe no more: This reaſon would fulfill, Their worke ſhould ſerve their will. Are we not heires of death, In whom there is no truſt? Who toſs'd with reſtleſſe breath, Are but a dramme of duſt; Yet fooles when as we erre, And heavens doe wrath contract, If they a ſpace deferre Iuſt vengeance to exact, Pride in our boſome creepes, And miſinformes us thus, That Iove in pleaſure ſleepes, Or take no care of us: "The eye of heaven beholdes, "What every heart enfoldes. The Gods digeſt no crime, Though they (delaying long) In the offenders time, Seeme to neglect a wrong, Till others of their Race, Fill up the cup of wrath, Whom Ruine and diſgrace, Long time attended hath; And Gyges fault we feare, To Croeſus charge be lay'd, Which Iove will not forbeare, Though it be long delay'd: "For, O! ſometimes the Gods "Muſt plague ſinne with ſharpe Rods. And loe how Croeſus ſtill, Tormented in his minde, Like to Reeds on a hill, Doth quake at every winde! Each ſtep a terrour brings; Dreames doe by Night afflict him; And by day many things; All his Thoughts doe convict him; He his Starre would controule, This makes ill not the worſt, Whilſt he wounds his own ſoul, With apprehenſions firſt: "Man may his fate foreſee, "But not ſhunne heavens decree.