Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
Tricks, Iuliano, Statists call them Arts, Not to be fathomed by a vulgar reach: But though I want the villainy to know, Yet I have so much spleen to laugh at them; And take a comfort in this plainer sense: No subtlety can cozen Providence. HOw rests the Prince? O my good Lord, he rests, But 'tis a quiet, such as the Seas have, When that the winds have spent their violence, And out of impotence bestow a calm: 'Tis more a death, than slumber, you may see His senses rather weary, then at rest. Are then his fits so raging? Nothing else, Should he but wake, you'd think two Armies met, And strove together for the loudest shout. Disease has spread herself over all his parts, And only spared his tongue, as if some star Not knowing otherwise to clear itself From imputation of tyranny, For such exact plaguing of Innocence Had left him that to curse withal, that so To all that heard his fury, he might seem To be thus tortured for his Blasphemy. Water, some water. Now the fit begins: Some of my slaues runne, and exhaust the o, Charge him no more to vent his idle streams Into the glutted main, but rather pour All his moist mouths on me: d'ye stare, begone, Use not your eyes at all, unless to weep: And that, not tears of sorrow; but of help, Such as may cool me. Patience, sweet Prince, Add not unto the fire of your disease, The heat of passion. What red thing is this? Ha, Isabella, tell me. 'Tis your uncle. The noble Prince Ascanio. 'Tis false; He is nor Prince, nor noble: hark you friends, He talks of Passion, and of Patience, Let him discourse of Aetna, or Vesuvius, Or of a greater heat than I do feel, And I will answer him: Patience to me? Go bid rough seas be patient. He grows worse, And opposition does inflame him more: methinks I see his eyelids faintly strive, Against Death's closing. O! my joints are fire, Why does not heaven shed Cataracts, and lower Once to my comfort? are they hot as I, Have they no moisture, for a Suppliant? Then, though hot heau'n oppose, when once my br Hath left this corpse, I'll have a cold by death. Heard you that groan my Lord— o he is dead: Crack then ye tardy heart strings, quickly crack, And give me leave to overtake the flight Of my dead husband. What is past our help, Let it be past our grief: 'tis fortitude To suffer chances counterbuffs as one That by his expectation had deceived All her faint threatenings: till this sadder time Your life has had one constant scene of joy, Which here is interrupted: you should thank The heavens because they were not tedious In their delights: for this variety. As hunger praiseth feasts, so it may be You'll love joy better for this misery. HOW covetous thou art to learn mishap? Beatrice the answer kills thee. Kill me then, But not deny me. Dearest, I am lost, And in my ruin, thou.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T9 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Trickes, Iuliano, Statiſts call them Arts, Not to be fado'd by a vulgar reach: But though I want the villany to know, Yet I haue ſo much ſpleene to laugh at them; And take a comfort in this plainer ſenſe: No ſubtilty can coozen Prouidence. HOw reſts the Prince? O my good Lord, he reſts▪ But 'tis a quiet, ſuch as the Seas haue, When that the winds haue ſpent their violence, And out of impotence beſtow a calme: 'Tis more a death, then ſlumber, you may ſee His ſenſes rather weary, then at reſt. Are then his its ſo raging? Nothing elſe, Should he but wake, youde thinke two Armies met▪ And ſtroue together for the loudeſt ſhout. Diſeaſe has ſpred herſelfe ore all his parts, And onely ſpar'd his tongue, as if ſome ſtarre Not knowing otherwiſe to cleare it ſelfe From imputation of tyranny, For ſuch exact plaguing of Innocence Had left him that to curſe withall, that ſo To all that heard his fury, he might ſeeme To be thus tortur'd for his Blaſphemy. Water, ſome water. Now the fit beginnes: Some of my ſlaues runne, and exhauſt the o, Charge him no more to vent his idle ſtreames Into the glutted maine, but rather poure All his moyſt mouths on me: d'yee ſtare, begone, Vſe not your eyes at all, vnleſſe to weepe: And that, not teares of ſorrow; but of helpe, Such as may coole me. Patience, ſweet Prince, Adde not vnto the fire of your diſeaſe, The heat of paſſion. What red thing is this? Ha, Iſabella, tell me. 'Tis your vncle. The noble Prince Aſcanio. 'Tis falſe; He is nor Prince, nor noble: hearke you friends, He talkes of Paſſion, and of Patience, Let him diſcourſe of Aetna, or Veſuuius, Or of a greater heat then I doe feele, And I will anſwer him: Patience to me? Goe bid rough ſeas be patient. He growes worſe, And oppoſition does inflame him more: Me thinkes I ſee his eye-lids faintly ſtriue, Againſt Deaths cloſing. O! my ioynts are fire, Why does not heau'n ſhed Cataracts, and lowr Once to my comfort? are they hot as I, Haue they no moyſture, for a Suppliant? Then, though hot heau'n oppoſe, when once my br Hath left this corps, Ile haue a cold by death. Heard you that grone my Lord—ô he is dead: Cracke then ye tardy heart ſtrings, quickly cracke, And giue me leaue to ouer-take the fligh▪ Of my dead husband. What is paſt our helpe, Let it be paſt our griefe: tis fortitude To ſuffer chances counterbuffes as one That by his expectation had deceiu'd All her faint threatnings: till this adder time Your life has had one conſtant ſcene of ioy, Which here is interrupted: you ſhould thanke The heau'ns becauſe they were not tedious In their delights: for this variety. As hunger prayſeth feaſts, ſo it may be Youle loue ioy better for this miſery. HOW couetous thou art to learne miſhap? Beatrice the anſwer kills thee. Kill me then, But not deny me. Deareſt, I am loſt, And in my ruine, thou.