Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
IS there a Heaven? and Gods? and can it be They should so slowly hear, so slowly see? Hath Ioue no thunder? or is Ioue become Stupid as thou art? o neare-wretched Rome, When both thy Senate, and thy Gods do sleep, And neither thine, not their own States do keep! What will awake thee, Heaven? what can excite Thine anger, if this practice be too light? His former drifts partake of former times, But this last plot was only Catilines. O, that it were his last. But he, before Hath safely done so much, he'll still dare more. Ambition, like a torrent, near looks back; And is a swelling, and the last affection A high mind can put off: being both a Rebel Unto the soul, and reason, and enforceth All laws, all conscience, treads upon religion, And offereth violence to Nature's self. But here, is that transcends it. A black purpose To confound Nature: and to ruin that, Which never Age, nor Mankind can repair. Sat down, good Lady; Cicero is lost In this your fable: for, to think it true Tempteth my reason. It so far exceeds All insolent fictions of the tragic Scene. The Commonwealth, yet panting, underneath The stripes, and wounds of a late civil war, Gasping for life, and scarce restored to hope; To seek t'oppress her, with new cruelty, And utterly extinguish her long name, With so prodigious, and unheard-of fierceness! What sink of Monsters, wretches of lost minds, Mad after change, and desperate in their states, Wearied, and galled with their necessities, (For all this I allow them) durst have thought it? Would not the barbarous deeds have been believed, Of Marius, and Sylla, by our Children, Without, this fact had rise forth greater, for them? All, that they did, was piety, to this. They, yet, but murdered Kinsfolk, Brothers, Parents, Ravished the Virgins, and, perhaps, some Matrons; They left the City standing, and the Temples: The Gods, and Majesty of Rome were safe yet. These purpose to fire it, to despoil them, (Beyond the other evils,) and lay waste The far-triumphed world: For, unto whom Rome is too little, what can be enough? 'tis true, my Lord, I had the same discourse. And, then, to take a horrid Sacrament In human blood, for execution Of this their dire design; which might be called The height of wickedness: but that, that was higher, For which they did it. I assure your Lordship, The extreme horror of it almost turned me To air, when first I heard it; I was all A vapour, when 't was told me; And I longed To vent it any where; 'Twas such a secret, I thought, it would have burnt me up. Good Fulvia, Fear not your act; and less repent you of it. I do not, my good Lord. I know to whom I have uttered it. You have discharged it, safely. Should Rome, for whom you have done the happy service, Turn most ingrate; yet were your virtue paid In conscience of the fact: so much good deeds Reward themselves.
seed 43: T1 · seed 44: T2 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
IS there a Heauen? and Gods? and can it be They should so slowly heare, so slowly see? Hath Ioue no thunder? or is Ioue become Stupide as thou art? ô neare-wretched Rome, When both thy Senate, and thy Gods doe sleepe, And neither thine, not their owne States doe keepe! What will awake thee, Heauen? what can excite Thine anger, if this practise be too light? His former drifts partake of former times, But this last plot was only Catilines. O, that it were his last. But he, before Hath safely done so much, hee'll still dare more. Ambition, like a torrent, nere lookes backe; And is a swelling, and the last affection A high minde can put off: being both a Rebell Vnto the soule, and reason, and enforceth All lawes, all conscience, treades vpon religion, And offereth violence to Natures selfe. But here, is that transcends it. A blacke purpose To confound Nature: and to ruine that, Which neuer Age, nor Mankinde can repaire. Sit downe, good Lady; Cicero is lost In this your fable: for, to thinke it true Tempteth my reason. It so farre exceedes All insolent fictions of the tragicke Scene. The Commonwealth, yet panting, vnderneath The stripes, and wounds of a late ciuill warre, Gasping for life, and scarce restor'd to hope; To seeke t'oppresse her, with new cruelty, And vtterly extinguish her long name, With so prodigious, and vnheard-of fiercenesse▪ What sinke of Monsters, wretches of lost minds, Mad after change, and desp'rate in their states, Wearied, and gall'd with their necessities, (For all this I allow them) durst haue thought it? Would not the barbarous deeds haue beene beleeu'd, Of Marius, and Sylla, by our Children, Without, this fact had rise forth greater, for them? All, that they did, was piety, to this. They, yet, but murdred Kinsfolke, Brothers, Parents, Rauish'd the Virgins, and, perhaps, some Matrons; They left the Citty standing, and the Temples: The Gods, and Maiesty of Rome were safe yet. These purpose to fire it, to dispoile them, (Beyond the other euils,) and lay wast The farre-triumphed world: For, vnto whom Rome is too little, what can be inough? Tis true, my Lord, I had the same discourse. And, then, to take a horride Sacrament In humane blood, for execution Of this their dire designe; which might be call'd The height of wickednesse: but that, that was higher, For which they did it. I assure your Lordship, The extreme horror of it almost turn'd me To aire, when first I heard it; I was all A vapor, when 't was told me; And I long'd To vent it any where; 'Twas such a secret, I thought, it would haue burnt me vp. Good Fuluia, Feare not your act; and lesse repent you of it. I doe not, my good Lord. I know to whom I haue vtter'd it. You haue discharg'd it, safely. Should Rome, for whom you haue done the happy seruice, Turne most ingrate; yet were your vertue paid In conscience of the fact: so much good deedes Reward themselues.