Alexander, William · published 1637 · first performed or written 1607 [1605-1607] (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T25 Kings, power and law: political sententi · 456 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T25: feare, kings, power, princes, lawes, loue, state, downe, honor, men.
O strange barbarity, most monstrous deed! Can men a woman, Subjects kill their Queen: And could her fortune past no pity breed? Who ever gave the wound, that not her seen. The ugly Author of those odious evils, (Of punishment afraid) must still be sad, His breast a hell, his thoughts all turned to devils, (Through horror of himself) must make him mad. And yet the plague of these detested times, Doth by more mischief aggravate our groans. No end in sin, crimes are maintained by crimes, Who fall in depths, must touch the bottom once: The path of honour hath but narrow bounds, On which who step, attentive must remain: Since raised so high above the vulgar grounds, That who thence fall can never rise again. Thus now Cassander (since he cannot win True reputation, but lives tainted still) Embarked in mischief, sails the depths of sin, So if not loved as good, yet feared as ill. Though (by his means) his ruthless eyes have seen Fates (as it were from fortune's bosom) take, His King by poison, by the sword his Queen, Even yet himself more guilty still to make, He (prospering in impiety) grew proud, And murdered both his Master's Son and Wife; Thus he, who all the world by birthright owed, Can have no part of it, no, not his life. Yet could Roxana's death not ease his mind, Nor her young son, too soon made Plato's gues●: But to undo all Alexander's kind, That to revenge the rest, there might none rest. By treason he (as all his deeds are done) Cau's Hercules his brother's steps to trace, Who was great Alexander's bastard son, And th' only remnant of that great man's race, Lo, thus Cassander, enemy to all good, Whose soul so much for Macedon longs: Hath to the Sceptre swim'd through Seas of blood, Yet, O weak right, since builded but on wrongs! O, how ambition doth abuse the great! Who with enough not pleased, still strive for more: Lo, how our Sovereign seemed to raise his state, Yet made it but to fall whilst starved with store. And since his Trophies reared in several fields, Both him and his have to confusion brought, Then, what is all the good that greatness yields, Which makes itself seem much to be made nought? Thus, though the mountains make a mighty show, They are but barren heaps borne up aloft, Where Plains are pleasant still, though they lie low, And are most fertile too, though trod on oft. Greatness is like a cloud in thy'ayrie bounds, Which some base vapours have congealed above: It brawls with Vulcan, thundering forth huge sounds, Yet melts and falls there whence it first did move.
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)
O ſtrange barbarity, moſt monſtrous deed! Could men a woman, Subjects kill their Queene: And could her fortune paſt no pitty breed? Who ever gave the wound, that not her ſeene. The ugly Author of thoſe odious evils, (Of puniſhment afraid) muſt ſtill be ſad, His breſt a hell, his thoughts all turn'd to divels, (Through horrour of himſelfe) muſt make him mad. And yet the plague of theſe deteſted times, Doth by more miſchiefe aggravate our grones. "No end in ſinne, crimes are maintain'd by crimes, "Who fall in depths, muſt touch the bottome once: "The path of honour hath but narrow bounds, "On which who ſtep, attentive muſt remaine: "Since rais'd ſo high above the vulgar grounds, "That who thence fall can never riſe againe. Thus now Caſſander (ſince he cannot winne True reputation, but lives tainted ſtill) Imbark'd in miſchiefe, ſailes the depths of ſinne, So if not lov'd as good, yet fear'd as ill. Though (by his meanes) his ruthleſſe eyes have ſeene Fates (as it were from fortunes boſome) take, His King by poyſon, by the ſword his Queene, Even yet himſelfe more guilty ſtill to make, He (proſp'ring in impiety) grew proud, And murdred both his Maſters Sonne and Wife; Thus he, who all the world by birth-right ow'd, Could have no part of it, no, not his life. Yet could Roxanaes death not eaſe his minde, Nor her yong ſonne, too ſoone made Platoes gueſ: But to undoe all Alexanders kinde, That to revenge the reſt, there might none reſt. By treaſon he (as all his deeds are done) Cau's Hercules his brothers ſteppes to trace, Who was great Alexanders baſtard ſonne, And th' onely remnant of that great mans race, Loe, thus Caſſander, enemy to all good, Whoſe ſoule ſo much for Macedonie longs: Hath to the Scepter ſwim'd through Seas of bloud, Yet, O weake right, ſince builded but on wrongs! O, how ambition doth abuſe the great! Who with enough not pleas'd, ſtill ſtrive for more: Loe, how our Soveraigne ſeem'd to raiſe his ſtate, Yet made it but to fall whilſt ſtarv'd with ſtore. And ſince his Trophees rear'd in ſeverall fields, Both him and his have to confuſion brought, "Then, what is all the good that greatneſſe yeelds, "Which makes it ſelfe ſeeme much to be made nought? "Thus, though the mountaines make a mighty ſhow, "They are but barren heapes borne up aloft, "Where Plains are pleaſant ſtill, though they lye low, "And are moſt fertile too, though trod on oft. "Greatneſſe is like a cloud in thy'ayrie bounds, "Which ſome baſe vapours have congeal'd above: "It brawles with Vulcan, thundring forth huge ſounds, "Yet melts and falles there whence it firſt did move.