Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T19: virtue, fortune, virtues, honour, fame, vice, envy, world, pride, great.
Yea we, whose freedom Caesar now restrains, As his attenders all his steps must trace; And know, yet not acknowledge his disdains, But still pretend t'have interest in his grace. Though all my thoughts detest him as a foe, To honour him a thousand means I move; Yet But to save myself, and plague him so, No hate more harms than it that looks like love. His pride that through preposterous honour swells, Hath by the better sort, made him abhorred; The gods are jealous, and men envious else, To see a mortal man so much adored. Well, Cicero let all means be entertained, That may embark us in his bosoms depths, Till either willingly or then constrained, He justly quite what he unjustly keeps. This life of ours is like a Rose, Which whilst it beauty's rare array, Doth then enjoy the least repose When virginlike it blush we see: Then is't every hand the prey, And by each wind is blown away: Yea though from violence scaped free, (Whilst time triumphs, it leads all thralls) Yet doth it languish and decay. O Whilst the courage hottest boil, And that our life seems best to be, It is with dangers compassed still, Whilst it each little change appals, The body force without whiles foils, It th'own distemperature whiles spoils: Of which, though none it chance to kill: As nature fails the body falls, Of which, save death, nought bounds the toils. What is this moving tower in which we trust? A little wind closed in a cloud of dust. And yet some spirits though here being pent, In this frail prisons narrow bounds, With what might suffice not content, Do always bend their thoughts too high, And aim at all the peopled grounds, Then whilst their breasts ambition wounds, Though feeding as bent straight to die. They build as they might always live, Being famished for fame's empty sounds: Of such no end the travels ends, But a beginning gives whereby They may b'embroiled worse than before, For whilst they still new hopes contrive, Th'expected good more anguish sends Then the possessed contentment lends, Like beasts that taste not, but devour. They swallow much, and for more strive, Whilst still their hope new hap attends: And how can such but still themselves annoy, That know to conquer, but not how t'enjoy? Since as a ship amidst the depths, Or as an Eagle through the air, Of which their way no impression keeps, Most swift when seeming least to move: This breath of which we take such care, Doth toss the body everywhere, That it may hence with haste remove: Life slips and sleeps always away, Then whence, and as it came goes bare, Whose steps behind no trace doth leave. Why should heaven-banished souls thus love The cause, and bounds of their exile, Where they as restless strangers stray, And with such pain why should they reave That which they have no right to have: Which with themselves within short while,
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)
Yea we, whoſe freedome Caeſar now reſtraines, As his attenders all his ſteppes muſt trace; And know, yet not acknowledge his diſdaines, But ſtill pretend t'haue intereſt in his grace. Though all my thoughts deteſt him as a foe, To honour him a thouſand meanes I moue; Yet But to ſaue my ſelfe, and plague him ſo, No hate more harmes than it that lookes like loue. His pride that through prepoſtrous honour ſwels, Hath by the better ſort, made him abhorrd; The gods are iealous, and men enuious els, To ſee a mortall man ſo much adord. Well, Cicero let all meanes be entertaind, That may imbarke vs in his boſomes depths, Till either willingly or then conſtrain'd, He iuſtly quite what he vniuſtly keepes. This life of ours is like a Roſe, Which whilſt it beauties rare array, Doth then enioy the leaſt repoſe When virgin-like it bluſh we ſee: Then is't euery hand the prey, And by each wind is blowne away: Yea though from violence ſcap'd free, (Whilſt time triumphs, it leads all thralles) Yet doth it languiſh and decay. O Whilſt the courage hotteſt boiles, And that our life ſeemes beſt to be, It is with dangers compaſt ſtill, Whilſt it each little change appalles, The body force without whiles foiles, It th'owne diſtemprature whiles ſpoiles: Of which, though none it chance to kill: As nature failes the bodie falles, Of which, ſaue death, nought bounds the toyles. What is this moouing tower in which we truſt? A little winde cloſd in a cloud of duſt. And yet ſome ſpirits though here being pent, In this fraile priſons narrow bounds, With what might ſuffice not content, Do alwayes bend their thoughts too hie, And aime at all the peopled grounds, Then whilſt their breaſts ambition wounds, Though feeding as bent ſtraight to die. They build as they might alwayes liue, Being famiſhd for fames empie ſounds: Of ſuch no end the trauels ends, But a beginning giues whereby They may b'imbroild worſe then before, For whilſt they ſtill new hopes contriue, Th'exſpected good more anguiſh ſends Then the poſſeſſde contentment lends, Like beaſts that taſte not, but deuoure. They ſwallow much, and for more ſtriue, Whilſt ſtill their hope new hap attends: And how can ſueh but ſtill themſelues annoy, That know to conquere, but not how t'enioy? Since as a ſhip amidſt the depthes, Or as an Eagle through the aire, Of which their way no impreſsion keepes, Moſt ſwift when ſeeming leaſt to moue: This breath of which we take ſuch care, Doth toſſe the bodie euery where, That it may hence with haſte remoue: Life ſlippes and ſleepes alwayes away, Then whence, and as it came goes bare, Whoſe ſteps behinde no trace doth leaue. Why ſhould heauen-baniſh'd ſoules thus loue The cauſe, and bounds of their exile, Where they as reſtleſſe ſtrangers ſtray, And with ſuch pain why ſhould they reaue That which they haue no right to haue: Which with them ſelues within ſhort while,