Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
Dost thou not feel me, Rome? Not yet? Is night So heavy on thee, and my weight so light? Can Sylla's Ghost arise within thy walls, Less threatening, than an earthquake, the quick falls Of thee, and thine? shake not the frighted heads Of thy steep towers? or shrink to their first beds? Or, as their ruin the large Tiber fills, Make that swell up, and drown thy seven proud hills? What sleep is this doth seize thee, so like death, And is not it? Wake, feel her, in my breath. Behold, I come, sent from the Stygian Sound, As a dire Vapour, that had cleft the ground, T'engender with the night, and blast the day; Or like a Pestilence, that should display Infection through the world: which, thus, I do. Pluto be at thy counsels; and into Thy darker bosom enter Sylla's spirit: All, that was mine, and bad, thy breast inherit. Alas, how weak is that, for Catiline! Did I but say (vain voice) all that was mine? All, that the Gracchis, Cinna, Marius would; What now, had I a body again, I could, Coming from hell; what Fiends would wish should be; And Hannibal could not have wished to see: Think thou, and practise. Let the long-hid seeds Of treason, in thee, now shoot forth in deeds, Ranker than horror; and thy former facts Not fall in mention, but to urge new acts: Conscience of them provoke thee on to more. Be still thy Incests, Murders, Rapes before Thy sense; thy forcing first a Vestal Nun; Thy parricide, late, on thine own natural Son, After his Mother, to make empty way For thy last wicked Nuptials; worse, than they, That fame that act of thy incestuous life, Which got thee, at once, a Daughter, and a Wife. I leave the slaughters, that thou didst for me, Of Senators; for which, I hid for thee Thy murder of thy Brother, (being so bribed) And writ him in the list of my proscribed After thy fact, to save thy little shame: Thy incest, with thy Sister, I not name. These are too light. Fate will have thee pursue Deeds, after which no Mischief can be new; The ruin of thy Country: Thou wert built For such a work, and borne for no less guilt: What though defeated once thoust been, and known, Tempt it again; That is thy act, or none. What all the several Ills, that visit earth, (Brought forth by night, with a sinister birth) Plagues, Famine, Fire could not reach unto, The Sword, nor Surfeits; let thy fury do: Make all past, present, future ill thine own; And conquer all example, in thy one. Nor let thy thought find any vacant time To hate an old, but still a fresher crime Drown the remembrance; Let not mischief cease, But, while it is in punishing, increase. Conscience, and care die in thee; And be free Not Heaven itself from thy impiety: Let Night grow blacker with thy plots; and Day, At showing but thy head forth, start away
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)
DO'st thou not feele me, Rome? Not yet? Is night So heauy on thee, and my weight so light? Can Sylla's Ghost arise within thy walles, Lesse threatning, then an earth-quake, the quicke falles Of thee, and thine? shake not the frighted heads Of thy steepe towers? or shrinke to their first beds? Or, as their ruine the large Tyber fils, Make that swell vp, and drowne thy seuen proud hils? What sleepe is this doth seize thee, so like death, And is not it? Wake, feele her, in my breath. Behold, I come, sent from the Stygian Sound, As a dire Vapor, that had cleft the ground, T'ingender with the night, and blast the day; Or like a Pestilence, that should display Infection through the world: which, thus, I doe. Pluto be at thy councels; and into Thy darker bosome enter Sylla's spirit: All, that was mine, and bad, thy brest inherit. Alas, how weake is that, for Catiline! Did I but say (vaine voice) all that was mine? All, that the Gracchi, Cinna, Marius would; What now, had I a body againe, I could, Comming from hell; what Fiendes would wish should be; And Hannibal could not haue wish'd to see: Thinke thou, and practise. Let the long-hid seedes Of treason, in thee, now shoote forth in deedes, Ranker then horror; and thy former facts Not fall in mention, but to vrge new acts: Conscience of them prouoke thee on to more. Be still thy Incsts, Murders, Rapes before Thy sense; thy forcing first a Vestall Nunne; Thy parricide, late, on thine owne naturall Sonne, After his Moher, to make empty way For thy last wicked Nuptials; worse, then they, That fame that act of thy incestuous life, Which got thee, at once, a Daughter, and a Wife. I leaue the slaughters, that thou didst for me, Of Senators; for which, I hid for thee Thy murder of thy Brother, (being so brib'd) And writ him in the list of my proscrib'd After thy fact, to saue thy little shame: Thy incest, with thy Sister, I not name. These are too light. Fate will haue thee pursue Deedes, after which no Mischiefe can be new; The ruine of thy Countrey: Thou wert built For such a worke, and borne for no lesse guilt: What though defeated once th'hast beene, and knowne, Tempt it againe; That is thy act, or none. What all the seuerall Ills, that visite earth, (Brought forth by night, with a sinister birth) Plagues, Famine, Fire could not reach vnto, The Sword, nor Surfets; let thy fury doe: Make all past, present, future ill thine owne; And conquer all example, in thy one. Nor let thy thought finde any vacant time To hate an old, but still a fresher crime Drowne the remembrance; Let not mischiefe cease, But, while it is in punishing, encrease. Conscience, and care die in thee; And be free Not Heau'n it selfe from thy impiety: Let Night grow blacker with thy plots; and Day, At shewing but thy head forth, start away