Alexander, William · published 1637 · first performed or written 1604 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T19 Virtue, Fortune and Vice as abstractions · 462 words · other edition — not in the analysis
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 to banish fear of dearth, With that which it by time may breed, Still dangers do our hopes exceed: The frosts may first with cold confound The tender greene's which deck the ground, Whose wrath though April's smiles assuage, It must abide th' Eolian rage, Which too o'er comed, whilst we attend All Ceres' wand'ring tresses bound, The reines let from their cloudy cage May spoil what we expect to spend: No perfect bliss before the end. Lee, whilst the Vine-tree great with Grapes, With nectared liquor strives to kiss Embracing Elms not loved d amiss, Those clusters lose their comely shapes, Whilst by the thunder burned, in heaps All Bacchus hopes fall down and perish Thus many things do fairly flourish, Which no perfection can attain, And yet we worldlings are so vain, That our conceits too high we bend, If fortune but our Spring time cherish, Though diverse storms we must sustain, To harvest ere our years ascend: No perfect bliss before the end. By all who in this world have place, There is a course which must be run, And let none think that he hath won, Till first he finished hath his race; The Forests through the which we trace, Breed ravenous beasts, which do abhor us, And lie in wait still to devour us, Whilst brambles do our steps beguile, The fear of which though we exile, And to our mark with gladness tend, Then 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 suddenly is now deprived Of all that wealth; and strangely falls: For every thing his spirit appals, His son's decease, his country's loss, And his own state, which storms do toss: Thus he who could not apprehend, Then whilst 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 who designed To reign over all who were about us, Behold how fortune too doth flout us, And utterly hath us resigned; For, to ourselves we that assigned A Monarchy, but knew not how, Yet thought to make the world to bow, Which 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 true 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 ſeed, The apt conceiving wombe of th' earth, And ſeeme to baniſh feare of dearth, With that which it by time may breed, Still dangers doe our hopes exceed: The froſts may firſt with cold confound The tender greenes which decke the ground, Whoſe wrath though Aprils ſmiles aſſwage, It muſt abide th' Eolian rage, Which too o're com'd, whilſt we attend All Ceres wandring treſſes bound, The reines let from their cloudy cage May ſpoile what we expect to ſpend: No perfect bliſſe before the end. Lee, whil'ſt the Vine-tree great with Grapes, With nectar'd liquor ſtrives to kiſſe Embracing Elmes not lov'd d amiſſe, Thoſe cluſters loſe their comely ſhapes, Whilſt by the thunder burn'd, in heapes All Bacchus hopes fall downe and periſh Thus many things doe fairely flouriſh, Which no perfection can attaine, And yet we worldlings are ſo vaine, That our conceits too high we bend, If fortune but our Spring time cheriſh, Though divers ſtormes we muſt ſuſtaine, To harveſt ere our yeares aſcend: No perfect bliſſe before the end. By all who in this world have place, There is a courſe which muſt be runne, And let none thinke that he hath wonne, Till firſt he finiſh'd hath his race; The Forreſts through the which we trace, Breed ravenous beaſts, which doe abhorre us, And lye in wait ſtill to devoure us, Whil'ſt brambles doe our ſteppes beguile, The feare of which though we exile, And to our marke with gladneſſe tend, Then balles of gold are laid before us, To entertaine our thoughts a while, And our good meaning to ſuſpend: No perfect bliſſe before the end. Behold how Croeſus long hath liv'd, Throughout this ſpatious world admir'd, And having all that he deſir'd, A thouſand meanes of joy contriv'd; Yet ſuddenly is now depriv'd Of all that wealth; and ſtrangely falles: For every thing his ſprite appalles, His ſonnes deceaſe, his countryes loſſe, And his owne ſtate, which ſtormes doe toſſe: Thus he who could not apprehend, Then whil'ſt he ſlept in marble walles, No, nor imagine any croſſe, To beare all thoſe his breſt muſt lend: No perfect bliſſe before the end. And we the Lydians who deſign'd To raigne over all who were about us, Behold how fortune too doth flout us, And utterly hath us reſign'd; For, to our ſelves we that aſsign'd A Monarchie, but knew not how, Yet thought to make the world to bow, Which 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 true that Solon ſaid! While as he yet doth breath extend, No man is bleſt; behold the end.