Alexander, William · published 1637 · first performed or written 1604 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 499 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
I cannot tell you well, nor in what form, If that the destinies had so ordained, Or if of passions an impetuous storm Did raze the strings that had his tongue restrained; But when he saw his Sire in danger stand, He with those words a mighty shout did give: Thou furious Stranger stay, hold, hold thy hand, Kill not King Croesus, let my Father live; The other hearing this, his hand retired, And called his King's commandment to mind; High were those aims to which his thoughts aspired, Whom for great fortunes this rare chance designed; Now when that Croesus, who for death long longed, Was quite undone, by being thus preserved, As both by life, and death, then doubly wronged, Whilst but by fates for further harm reserved; He with sad sighs those accents did accord: Now let the heavens do all the ill they can, Which would not unto me the grace afford, That I might perish like a private man, Ah, must I live to sigh that I was borne, Charactering shame in a dejected face? Ah, must I live, to my perpetual scorn, The abject object, pointed for disgrace? Yet this unto his soul more sorrow bred, He (scorn pretending state) as King arrayed, Was with great shouts ridiculously led Back to the Tent, whereas their Emperor stayed: Then that he might his misery conceive, Those robes so rich, were all exchanged with chains, And prisons strictness bragged him with the grave, So soon as death could make a choice of pains; They caused in haste a pile of wood to make, And in the midst where all men might him spy, Caused bind the captive King unto a stake, With fourteen others of the Lydians by; There (as if offerings fit to purge the state) Foes sought with flames their ruin to procure, Though Iove preposterous piety doth hate: No sacrifice is sweet, which is not pure. Now whilst the fire was kindling round about, As to some powerful God, who prayed, or vowed, With eyes bend up, and with his hands stretched out: O! Solon, Solon, Croesus cried aloud; Some hearing him to utter such a voice, Who said that Cyrus' curious was to know (When dying now) what deity was his choice, Did him request his last intent to show: His exclamation was (said he) on one, With whom he wished (their frailty so to see) That all who ever trusted in a Throne, Had but conferred a space as well as he; Then there he told what Solon had him shown, Whilst at his Court (which flourished then) arrived; How worldly bliss might quickly be o'erthrown, And not accomplished was, while as one lived; Whilst forth salt floods attending troops did pour; He show how much the wiseman did disdain Those who presumed of wealth, or worldly power, By which none could a perfect bliss obtain; This speech did Cyrus move to ponder much The great uncertainty of worldly things,
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)
I cannot tell you well, nor in what forme, If that the deſtinies had ſo ordain'd, Or if of paſſions an impetuous ſtorme Did raze the ſtrings that had his tongue reſtrain'd; But when he ſaw his Syre in danger ſtand, He with thoſe words a mighty ſhout did give: Thou furious Stranger ſtay, hold, hold thy hand, Kill not King Croeſus, let my Father live; The other hearing this, his hand retyr'd, And call'd his Kings commandement to minde; High were thoſe aymes to which his thoughts aſpir'd, Whom for great fortunes this rare chance deſign'd; Now when that Croeſus, who for death long long'd, Was quite undone, by being thus preſerv'd, As both by life, and death, then doubly wrong'd, Whil'ſt but by fates for further harme reſerv'd; He with ſad ſighs thoſe accents did accord: Now let the heavens do all the ill they can, Which would not unto me the grace afford, That I might periſh like a private man, Ah, muſt I live to ſigh that I was borne, Charactring ſhame in a dejected face? Ah, muſt I live, to my perpetuall ſcorne, The abject object, pointed for diſgrace? Yet this unto his ſoule more ſorrow bred, He (ſcorne pretending ſtate) as King array'd, Was with great ſhouts ridiculouſly led Backe to the Tent, whereas their Emp'rour ſtay'd: Then that he might his miſery conceive, Thoſe robes ſo rich, were all exchang'd with chains, And priſons ſtrictneſſe bragg'd him with the grave, So ſoone as death could make a choice of paines; They cauſ'd in haſte a pile of wood to make, And in the mid'ſt where all men might him ſpie, Caus'd binde the captive King unto a ſtake, With fourteene others of the Lydians by; There (as if offerings fit to purge the ſtate) Foes ſought with flames their ruine to procure, Though Iove prepoſtrous piety doth hate: "No ſacrifice is ſweet, which is not pure. Now whil'ſt the fire was kindling round about, As to ſome pow'rfull God, who pray'd, or vow'd, With eyes bent up, and with his hands ſtretch'd out: O! Solon, Solon, Croeſus cry'd aloud; Some hearing him to utter ſuch a voice, Who ſaid that Cyrus curious was to know (When dying now) what deity was his choice, Did him requeſt his laſt intent to ſhow: His exclamation was (ſaid he) on one, With whom he wiſh'd (their frailty ſo to ſee) That all who ever truſted in a Throne, Had but conferr'd a ſpace as well as he; Then there he told what Solon had him ſhowne, Whil'ſt at his Court (which flouriſh'd then) arriv'd; How worldly bliſſe might quickly be o're-throwne, And not accompliſh'd was, while as one liv'd; Whil'ſt forth ſalt flouds attending troupes did powre; He ſhew how much the wiſe-man did diſdaine Thoſe who preſum'd of wealth, or worldly pow'r, By which none could a perfect bliſſe obtaine; This ſpeech did Cyrus move to ponder much The great uncertainty of worldly things,