Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
WE should be grieved t'offend the gods, That hold us in a balance still; And as they will, May weigh us up or down, Those that by folly engender pride, And do deride The terror of th'eternal's rods, In seas of sin their souls do drown. And others but abhor them as unjust, Those that religion want deserve no trust. How dare frail flesh presume to rise? Whilst it deserves heavens wrath to prove, On th'earth to move, Lest that it opening straight, Give death and burial both at once: How dare such one's Look up unto the skies, For fear to feel the thunder's weight? All th'elements th'immortals will attend, And are as prompt to plague as men t' offend. None scapes some plague that gods displease: Then whilst he Bacchus' rites did scorn, Was Pentheus torn: The Delians high disdain Made Niobe though turned t'a stone, With tears still moan, And Pallas spite t'appease, Arachne weaves loathed webs in vain. Heaven hath prepared or ever they begin, A fall for pride, a punishment for sin. Lo Iuno yet doth still retain, That indignation once conceived, For wrong received, From Paris as we find, And for his cause, bent to disgrace The Trojan race, Doth hold a high disdain, Long laid up in a lofty mind, We should abstain from irritating those, Whose thoughts (if wronged) not till revenged repose: Thus those for Paris fond desire, That of his pleasures had no part, For them must smart, Such be the fruits of lust. Can heavenly breasts so long time lodge, A secret grudge, Like mortals thrall to ire, Till justice whiles doth seem unjust? Of all the furies that afflict the soul, Lust and revenge are har hardest to control: The gods give them but rarely rest, That do against their will contend, And plagues do spend That fortunate in nought Their sprites being parted from repose, May still expose Th'upbraiding troubled breast, A prey to each tyrannic thought: All self-accusing souls no rest can find, What greater torment than a, troubled mind: Let us adore th'immortal powers, On whose decree, of every thing The State doth hang, That far from barbarous broils, We of our life this little space May spend in peace, Free from afflictions showers, Or at the least from guilty toils, Let us of rest the treasure strive t'attain, Without the which nought can be had but pain. NOw have my hopes attained th'expected haven, In spite of partial envies poisonous blasts: My fortune with my courage hath proved even, No monument of miscontentment lasts. Those that corrivaled me, by me o'erthrown, Did by their falls give feathers to my flight: I rather in some corner live unknown, Than shine in glory, and not shine most bright, What common is to two, rests no more, No Phoenix is in all the world save one: Grieved of my deeds that any claims a share, Would God that I had acted all alone.
seed 43: T32 · seed 44: T26 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
WE ſhould be grieu'd t'offend the gods, That holde vs in a ballance ſtill; And as they will, May weigh vs vp or downe, Thoſe that by follie ingender pride, And doe deride The terrour of th'eternalls roddes, In ſeas of ſinne their ſoules doe drowne. And others but abhorre them as vniust, Thoſe that religion want deſerue no trust. How dare fraile fleſh preſume to riſe? Whilſt it deſerues heauens wrath to proue, On th'carth to moue, Leſt that it op'ning ſtraight, Giue death and buriall both at once: How dare ſuch ones Looke vp vnto the skies, For feare to feele the thunders weight? All th'elements th'immortalls will attend, And are as prompt to plague as men t' offend. None ſcapes ſome plague that gods diſpleaſe: Then whilst he Bacchus rites did ſcorne, Was Pentheus torne: The Delians high diſdaine Made Niobe though turnd t'a ſtone, With teares ſtill mone, And Pallas ſpite t'appeaſe, Arrachne weaues loathd webbes in vaine. Heauen hath preparde or euer they beginne, A fall for pride, a puniſhment for ſinne. Loe Iuno yet doth ſtill retaine, That indignation once conceiu'd, For wrong receiu'd, From Paris as we finde, And for his cauſe, bent to diſgrace The Troyan race, Doth hold a high diſdaine, Long laide vp in a loftie minde, We ſhould abstaine from irritating thoſe, Whoſe thoughts (if wrongd) not till reuengde repoſe: Thus thoſe for Paris fond deſire, That of his pleaſures had no part, For them must ſmart, Such be the fruites of lust. Can heauenly breaſts ſo long time lodge, A ſecret grudge, Like mortalls thrall to ire, Tilll Iustice whiles doth ſeeme vniuſt? Of all the furies that afflict the ſoule, Lust and reuenge are har deſt to controule: The gods giue them but rarely reſt, That do againſt their will contend, And plagues doe ſpend That fortunate in nought Their ſprites being parted from repoſe, May ſtill expoſe Th'vpbraiding troubled breast, A prey to each tyrannicke thought: All ſelfe-accuſing ſoules no reſt can finde, VVhat greater torment than a, troubled minde: Let vs adore th'immortall powres, On whoſe decree, of euery thing The State doth hing, That farre from barbarous broiles, VVe of our life this little ſpace May ſpend in peace, Free from afflictions ſhowres, Or at the leaſt from guiltie toiles, Let vs of reſt the treaſure ſtriue t'attaine, VVithout the which nought can be had but paine. NOw haue my hopes attain'd th'exſpected hauen, In ſpite of partiall enuies poiſnous blaſts: My fortune with my courage hath proou'd euen, No monument of miſcontentment laſts. Thoſe that corriualld me, by me orethrowne, Did by their falles giue feathers to my flight: I rather in ſome corner liue vnknowne, Than ſhine in glorie, and not ſhine moſt bright, What common is to two, reſts no morerare, No Phaenix is in all the world ſaue one: Grieu'd of my deedes that any claimes a ſhare, Would God that I had acted all alone.