Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
O Troy, and O ye souls of our Forefathers, Which in your country's fires were offered up, How near your Nephews, to your fortune's come: Yet they were Grecian hands began your flame; But that our Temples, and our houses smoke, Our Marble buildings turn to be our Tombs, Burnt bones and spurned at Courses fill the streets, Not Pyrrhus, nor thou Hannibal, art Author, Sad Rome is ruined by a Roman hand. But if to Nero's end, this only way heaven's justice hath chose out, and people's love Could not but by this feebling ills be moved; We do not then at all complain our harms, On this condition please us, let us die, And cloy the Parthian, with revenge and pity. My Master hath sealed up his Testament, Those bondmen which he liketh best set free, Given money, and more liberally than he used: And now, as if a farewell to the world Were meant, A sumptuous banquet hath he made; Yet not with countenance that feasters use, But cheers his friends the whilst himself looks sad. I have from fortunes Temple ta'en this sword, May it be fortunate, and now at least Since it could not prevent, punish the Evil; To Rome it had been better done before, But though less helping now, they'll praise it more. Great Sovereign of all mortal actions Whom only wretched men, and poet's blame, Speed thou the weapon, which I have from thee. 'Twas not amidst thy Temple Monuments In vain reposed, somewhat I know 't hath done: O with new honours let it be laid up: Strike boldly, arm so many powerful prayers Of dead, and living hover over thee. And though sometimes, with talk impertinent, And idle fances, he would feign a mirth; Yet is it easy seen, somewhat is here The which, he dares not let his face make show of. Long want of loss hath made it dull, and blunt: See, Melichus, this weapon better edged. sharpening of swords, when must we then have blows, Or means my Master, Cato-like, to exempt Himself from power of Fates, and cloyed with life, Give the God's back their unregarded gift, But he hath neither Cato's mind, nor cause; A man given over to pleasures, and soft ease: Which makes me still to doubt, how in affairs Of Princes he dares meddle, or desires? We shall have blows on both sides, Melichus; Provide me store of clothes to bind up wounds; What an't be heart, for heart, Death is the worst; The Gods sure keep it, hide from us that live How sweet death is, because we should go on And be their bails: There are about the house Some stones that will staunch blood, see them set up: This world I see hath no felicity, I'll try the other. Nero's life is soft, The sword's prepared against another's breast, The help for his; it can be no private foe, For then 'twere best to make it known, and call His troops of bond, and freed men to his aid: Besides his Counsellors, Seneca, And Lucan, are no Managers of quarrels.
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)
O Troy, and O yee ſoules of our Forefathers, Which in your countreys fires were offred vp, How neere your Nephewes, to your fotunes come: Yet they were Grecian hands began your flame; But that our Temples, and our houſes ſmoake, Our Marble buildings turne to be our Tombes, Burnt bones and ſpurnt at Couſes fill the ſtreets, Not Pirrhus, nor thou Hanniball, art Autho, Sad Rome is ruin'd by a Romane hand. But if to Neroes end, this onely way Heauens Iuſtice hath choſe out, and peoples loue Could not but by this feebling ills be mou'd; We doe not then at all complaine our harmes, On this condition pleaſe vs, let vs die, And cloy the Parthian, with reuenge and pitie. My Maſter hath ſeald vp his Teſtament, Thoſe bond-men which he liketh beſt ſet free, Giuen money, and more liberally then he vs'd: And now, as if a farewell to the world Were meant, A ſumpteous banquet hath he made; Yet not with countenance that feaſters vſe, But che eres his friends the whileſt himſelfe lookes ſad. I haue from fortunes Temple tane this ſword, May it be fortunate, and now at leaſt Since it could not preuent, puniſh the Euill; To Rome it had bin better done before, But though leſſe helping now, they'le praiſe it more. Great Soueraigne of all mortall actions Whom onely wretched men, and Poets blame, Speed thou the weapon, which I haue from thee. 'Twas not amidſt thy Temple Monuments In vaine repos'd, ſomewhat I know 't hath done: O with new honours let it be laid vp: Strike bouldly, arme ſo many powerfull prayers Of dead, and liuing houer ouer thee. And though ſometimes, with talke impertineur, And idle fances, he would faine a mirth; Yet is it eaſie ſeene, ſomewhat is here The which, he dares not let his face make ſhew of. Long want of loſſe hath made it dull, and blunt: See, Melichus, this weapon better edg'd. Sharpning of ſwords, when muſt wee then haue blowes, Or meanes my Maſter, Cato-like, to exempt Himſelfe from power of Fates, and cloy'd with life, Giue the Gods backe their vnregarded gift, But he hath neither Catoes minde, nor cauſe; A man giuen ore to pleaſures, and ſoft eaſe: Which makes me ſtill to doubt, how in affaires Of Princes he dares meddle, or deſires? We ſhall haue blowes on both ſides, Melichus; Prouide me ſtore of cloathes to bind vp wounds; What an't be heart, for heart, Death is the worſt; The Gods ſure keepe it, hide from vs that liue How ſweet death is, becauſe we ſhould goe on And be their bailes: There are about the houſe Some ſtones that will ſtanch blood, ſee them ſet vp: This world I ſee hath no felicitie, Ile trie the other. Neroes life is ſoft, The ſword's prepar'd againſt anothers breaſt, The helpe for his; it can be no priuate foe, For then 'twere beſt to make it knowne, and call His troupes of bond, and freed men to his aide: Beſides his Counſellors, Seneca, And Lucan, are no Managers of quarrels.