Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
Why with false Auguries have we been deceived? Why was our Empire told us, should endure With Sun, and Moon, in time; in brightness pass them, And that our end should be o'th' world, and it. What, can Celestial Godheads double too? O Rome, the envy late, But now, the pity of the world thee gets, The men of Choleos at thy sufferings grieve, The shaggy dweller in the Scythian Rocks; The most condemned to perpetual snow That never wept at kindred's burials, Suffers with thee, and feels his heart to soften. O, should the Parthian hear these miseries, He would, (his low and native hate apart) Sit down with us. and lend an enemy's tear, To grace the funeral fires of ending Rome. ay, now my Troy looks beauteous in her flames, The Tyrrhene Seas are bright with Roman fires, Whilst the amazed Mariner afar, Gazing on th'unknown light, wonders what star Heaven hath begot, to ease the aged Moon. When Pyrrhus, striding o'er the cinders, stood On ground, where Troy late was; and with his Eye Measured the height of what he had thrown down, A City, great in people, and in power: Walls built with hands of Gods; He now forgive The ten years' length, and thinks his wounds well healed, Bathed in the blood of Priam's fifty sons. Yet am not I appeased, I must see more Than Towers, and Columns tumble to the ground; 'Twas not the high built walls, and guiltless stones That Nero did provoke; Themselves must be the wood To feed this fire, or quench it with their blood. O my dear Infant, O my Child, my Child; Unhappy comfort of my nine months' pains; And did I bear thee, only for the fire, Was I to that end made a Mother? ay, now begins the scene that I would have. O Father speak yet; no, the merciless blow Hath all bereft, speech, motion, sense, and life. O beauteous innocence, whiteness ill blacked, How to be made a coal couldst thou deserve? O reverend wrinkles, well becoming paleness, Why hath death now life's colours given thee, And mocks thee with the beauties of fresh youth? Why wert thou given me, to be ta'en away So soon, or could not Heaven tell how to punish But first by blessing me. Why were thy years lengthened so long, To be cut off untimely? Play on, play on, and fill the golden skies With cries, and pity; with your blood; Men's Eyes. Where are thy flattering smiles, thy pretty kisses, And arms, that wont to writhe about my neck? Where are thy Counsels, where their good example? And that kind roughness of a Father's anger? Whom have I now to leave my old age on? Who shall I now have to set right my youth, God's if ye be not fled from Heaven help us.
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)
Why with falſe Auguries haue we bin deceiu'd? Why was our Empire told vs, ſhould endure With Sunne, and Moone, in time; in brightneſſe paſſe them, And that our end ſhould be oth' world, and it. What, can Celeſtiall Godheads double too? O Rome, the enuy late, But now, the pitie of the world thee gets, The men of Choleos at thy ſufferings griue, The ſhaggy dweller in the Scithian Rockes; The moſt condemned to perpetuall ſnowe That neuer wept at kindreds burials, Suffers with thee, and feeles his heart to ſoften. O, ſhould the Parthyan heare theſe miſeries, He would, (his low and natiue hate apart) Sit downe with vs. and lend an Enemies teare, To grace the funerall fires of ending Rome. I, now my Troy lookes beautious in her flames, The Trirhnen Seas are bright with Roman fires, Whileſt the amazed Marriner a farre, Gazing on th'vnknowne light, wonders what starre Heauen hath begot, to eaſe the aged Moone. When Pirrhus, ſtryding ore the cynders, ſtood On ground, where Troy late was; and with his Eye Meaſur'd the height of what he had throwne downe, A Citie, great in people, and in power: Walls built with hands of Gods; He now forgiue The ten yeares length, and thinkes his wounds well heald, Bath'd in the blood of Priams fifty ſonnes. Yet am not I appeas'd, I muſt ſee more Then Towers, and Collomns tumble to the ground; 'Twas not the high built walles, and guiltleſſe ſtones That Nero did prouoke; Themſelues muſt be the wood To feed this fire, or quench it with their blood. O my deare Infant, O my Child, my Child; Vnhappy comfort of my nine moneths paines; And did I beare thee, onely for the fire, Was I to that end made a Mother? I, now begins the ſceane that I would haue. O Father ſpeake yet; no, the mercileſſe blowe Hath all bereft, ſpeech, motion, ſenſe, and life. O beauteous innocence, whitnes ill blackt, How to be made a coale couldſt thou deſerue? O reuerend wrinckles, well becomming paleneſſe, Why hath death now lifes colours giuen thee, And mockes thee with the beauties of freſh youth? Why wert thou giuen me, to be tane away So ſoone, or could not Heauen tell how to puniſh But firſt by bleſsing mee. Why were thy yeares lengthned ſo long, To be cut off vntimely? Play on, play on, and fill the golden skies With cryes, and pitie; with your blood; Mens Eyes. Where are thy flattering ſmiles, thy pretty kiſſes, And armes, that wont to writhe about my necke? Where are thy Counſels, where their good example? And that kind roughnes of a Fathers anger? Whom haue I now to leaue my old age on? Who ſhall I now haue to ſet right my youth, Gods if yee be not fled from Heauen helpe vs.