Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
NAy, faint not now, so near the fields of rest, Here no more furies, no more torments dwell, Then each hath felt already in his breast, Who hath been once in love, hath proved his hell. Up then, and follow this my golden rod, That points you next to aged LETHE'S shore, Who powers his waters from his urn abroad, Of which but tasting, you shall faint no more. Stay, who, or what fantastic shades are these That HERMES leads? They are the gentle forms, Of Lovers, tossed upon those frantic seas, Whence VENUS sprung. And have rid out her storms? No. Did they perish? Yes. How? Drowned by love, That drew them forth with hopes as smooth as were Th'unfaithful waters he desired 'em prove. And turned a tempest when he had 'em there? He did, and on the billow would he roll, And laugh, to see one throw his heart away, Another sighing, vapour forth his soul, A third, to melt himself in tears, and say, O Love, I now to salter water turn Then that I die in; then, a fourth, to cry Amid the surges, oh I burn, I burn: A fift, laugh out, it is my ghost, not I And thus in pairs I found 'hem. Only one There is, that walks, and stops, and shakes his head, And shuns the rest, as glad to be alone, And whispers to himself, he is not dead. No more are all the rest. No? No. But, why Proceeds this doubtful voice from destiny? It is too sure. Sure? I: thinks MERCURY, That any things, or names on earth do die, That are obscured from knowledge of the FATES; Who keep all rolls? And know all nature's dates? They say themselves theyare dead. It not appears. Or, by our rock. Our spindle. Or our shears. Here all their threads are growing, yet none cut. I gi'en to doubt, that Love with charms hath put This fantasy in 'em; and they only think That they are ghosts. If so, then let 'em drink Of LETHE'S stream. 'Twill make 'em to forget LOVES name. And so, they may recover yet. Do, bow unto the reverend lake. And having touched there; up, and shake The shadows off, which yet do make Us you, and you yourselves mistake. See! see! they are themselves again! Yes, now they are substances, and men. LOVE, at the name of LETHE flies. For, in oblivion drowned, he dies. He must not hope, though other states He oft subdue, he can the FATES.
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)
NAy, faint not now, ſo neere the fields of reſt, Here no more furies, no more torments dwell, Then each hath felt already in his breſt, Who hath beene once in loue, hath prou'd his hell. Vp then, and follow this my golden rod, That points you next to aged LETHES ſhore, Who powres his waters from his vrne abroad, Of which but taſting, you ſhall faint no more. Stay, who, or what phantaſtique ſhades are theſe That HERMES leades? They are the gentle formes, Of Louers, toſt vpon thoſe frantique ſeas, Whence VENVS ſprung. And haue rid out her ſtormes? No. Did they periſh? Yes. How? Drown'd by loue, That drew them forth with hopes as ſmooth as were Th'vnfaithfull waters he deſir'd 'hem proue. And turn'd a tempeſt when he had 'hem there? He did, and on the billow would he rowle, And laugh, to ſee one throw his heart away, Another ſighing, vapour forth his ſoule, A third, to melt himſelfe in teares, and ſay, O Loue, I now to ſalter water turne Then that I die in; then, a fourth, to crie Amid the ſurges, oh I burne, I burne: A fift, laugh out, it is my ghoſt, not I. And thus in paires I found 'hem. Only one There is, that walks, and ſtops, and ſhakes his head, And ſhuns the reſt, as glad to be alone, And whiſpers to himſelfe, he is not dead. No more are all the reſt. No? No. But, why Proceedes this doubtfull voyce from deſtiny? It is too ſure. Sure? I: thinkes MERCVRY, That any things, or names on earth doe die, That are obſcur'd from knowledge of the FATES; Who keepe all rolls? And know all natures dates? They ſay themſelues th'are dead. It not appeares. Or, by our rocke. Our ſpindle. Or our ſheeres. Here all their threds are growing, yet none cut. I' gin to doubt, that Loue with charmes hath put This phant'ſie in 'hem; and they only thinke That they are ghoſts. If ſo, then let 'hem drinke Of LETHES ſtreame. 'Twill make 'hem to forget LOVES name. And ſo, they may recouer yet. Doe, bow vnto the reuerend lake. And hauing touch'd there; vp, and ſhake The ſhaddowes off, which yet doe make Vs you, and you your-ſelues miſtake. See! ſee! they are themſelues agen! Yes, now they are ſubſtances, and men. LOVE, at the name of LETHE flyes. For, in obliuion drown'd, he dyes. He muſt not hope, though other ſtates He oft ſubdue, he can the FATES.