Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
This benefit at least. Sad death shall give, to free me from the power Of such a government; and if I die For pitying humane chance, and Piso's end, There will be some too, that will pity mine. O what a dauntless look, what sparkling eyes, Threating in suffering; sure some noble blood Is hid in rags, fears argues a base spirit In him what courage, and contempt of death, And shall I suffer one I love to die? He shall not die? hands of this man, away, Nero, thou shalt not kill this guiltless man. He guiltless, strumpet. She's in love with the smooth face of the boy. Alas my Lord you have slain her. Help she dies. Poppaa, Poppaa, speak, I am not angry, I did not mean to hurt thee, speak sweet love. she's dead my Lord. Fetch her again, she shall not die, I'll ope the Iron gates of hell, And break the imprisond shadows of the deep, And force from death this far too worthy prey, She is not dead. The crimson red, that like the morning shone, When from her windows, (all with Roses strewed,) She peepeth forth forsakes not yet her cheeks, Her breath, that like a honeysuckle smelled twining about the prickled Eglintine, Yet moves her lips; those quick, and piercing eyes, That did in beauty challenge heaven's eyes Yet shine as they were wont: O no they do not, See how they grow obscure: O see, they close, And cease to take, or give light to the world. What stars soe'er you are assured to grace The firmament, (for lo the twinkling fires Together throng, and that clear milky space Of storms, and Phiades, and thunder void, Prepares your room,) do not with wry aspect Look on your Nero, who in blood shall mourn Your luckless fate; And many a breathing soul, Send after you to wait upon their Queen; This shall begin, the rest shall follow after, And fill the streets with outcries, and with slaughter. What means your mourning, this ungrateful sorrow? Where are your precepts of Philosophy? Where our prepared resolution, So many years fore-studied against danger? To whom is Nero's cruelty unknown? Or what remained after mother's blood, But his instructor's death? Leave, leave these tears, Death from me nothing takes, but what's a burden, A clog, to that free spark of Heavenly fire: But that in Seneca, the which you loved, Which you admired, doth, and shall still remain Secure of death, untouched of the grave. we'll not belie our tears, we wail not thee, It is ourselves, and our own loss we grieve; To thee, what loss in such a change can be, Virtue is paid her due, by death alone; To our own losses do we give these tears, That lose thy love, thy boundless knowledge lose, Lose the unpatterned sample of thy virtue, Lose whatsoe'er may praise, or sorrow move; In all these losses, yet of this we glory, That 'tis thy happiness that makes us sorry.
nodes 1692–1757 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 27 of 35 in this edition
Length
504 words · 685 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.740 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
This benefit at leaſt. Sad death ſhall giue, to free me from the power Of ſuch a gouernment; and if I die For pitying humane chance, and Piſoes end, There will be ſome too, that will pitie mine. O what a dauntleſſe looke, what ſparkling eyes, Threating in ſuffering; ſure ſome noble blood Is hid in ragges, feares argues a baſe ſpirit In him what courage, and contempt of death, And ſhall I ſuffer one I loue to die? He ſhall not die? hands of this man, away, Nero, thou ſhalt not kill this guiltleſſe man. He guiltleſſe, ſtrumpet. She's in loue with the ſmoth face of the boy. Alas my Lord you haue ſlaine her. Helpe ſhe dies. Poppaa, Poppaa, ſpeake, I am not angry, I did not meane to hurt thee, ſpeake ſweet loue. Shee's dead my Lord. Fetch her againe, ſhe ſhall not die, Ile ope the Iron gates of hell, And breake the impriſond ſhaddowes of the deepe, And force from death this farre too worthy pray, Shee is not dead. The crimſon red, that like the morning ſhone, When from her windowes, (all with Roſes ſtrewde,) She peepeth forth forſakes not yet her chekes, Her breath, that like a hony-ſuckle ſmelt twining about the prickled Eglintine, Yet moues her lipes; thoſe quicke, and piercing eyes, That did in beautie challenge heauens eyes Yet ſhine as they were wont: O no they doe not, See how they grow obſcure: O ſee, they cloſe, And ceaſe to take, or giue light to the world. What ſtarres ſo ere you are aſſur'd to grace The firmament, (for loe the twinkling fires Together throng, and that cleare milky ſpace Of ſtormes, and Phiades, and thunder void, Prepares your roome,) doe not with wry aſpect Looke on your Nero, who in blood ſhall mourne Your luckleſſe fate; And many a breathing ſoule, Send afer you to waite vpon their Queene; This ſhall begin, the reſt ſhall follow after, And fill the ſtreets with outcryes, and with ſlaughter. What meanes your mourning, this vngratefull ſorrow? Where are your precepts of Philoſophie? Where our prepared reſolution, So many yeeres fore-ſtudied againſt danger? To whom is Neroes cruelty vnknowne? Or what remained after mothers blood, But his inſtructers death? Leaue, leaue theſe teares, Death from me nothing takes, but what's a burthen, A clog, to that free ſparke of Heauenly fire: But that in Seneca, the which you lou'd, Which you admir'd, doth, and ſhall ſtill remaine Secure of death, vntouched of the graue. Weele not belie our teares, we waile not thee, It is our ſelues, and our owne loſſe we grieue; To thee, what loſſe in ſuch a change can bee, Vertue is pai her due, by death alone; To our owne loſſes doe we giue theſe teares, That looſe thy loue, thy boundleſſe knowledge looſe, Looſe the vnpatternd ſample of thy vertue, Loſe whatſoeu'r may praiſe, or ſorrow moue; In all theſe loſſes, yet of this we glory, That 'tis thy happineſſe that makes vs ſorry.