Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T19: virtue, fortune, virtues, honour, fame, vice, envy, world, pride, great.
Whether their own neglect forced them to want, Or want to yield, 'tis doubted: but they yield: Thus as in trivial sports we oft have seen After a tedious inconstancy, The Cork return to him that struck it first, So in this fatal revolution, Fortune gives Naples unto him again, Whom she first injured in the taking it. Who hearing this would not erect his soul To a contempt of Fortune! that blind wretch Whom only sottishness hath Deified? Man hath a nobler Godhead in himself, His virtue and his wisdom, unto these Bend all our knees, let us still honour these: And count it comfort in our lowest state, He that is wise, would not be fortunate. WE leave it to your care, Sanseverin; But see the night grows old, good rest my Lords. Why stay'st thou, my Aurelio? good boy I'll see no bed tonight; then go, yet stay, If they have not escaped thy memory Sing me those verses which you made of sleep. HOw I laugh at their fond wish whose desire aims no higher Than the baits of Midas dish? What is Gold but yellow dirt? which th'unkind heaven's refined When they made us love our hurt. Would to heaven that I might steep my faint eyes in the wise, In the gentle dew of sleep? Whose effects do pose us so, that we deem it does seem Both Death's brother and his foe. This does always with us keep, and being dead that's not fled: Death is but a longer sleep. Pretty Philosophy! go boy, go sleep, Enjoy the good thou singest— this boy can sleep, Sleep quietly, and sing himself asleep: Making that gentle Rest unto his Song. But I'll go read: what have we here? a Map? Welcome thou lively picture of the world: Now I'll peruse my large Dominions, What a vast compass they do fill in thee? How Poe is wearied with his tedious course, But running only through our Continent? Ha! where is Poe? which is our Continent? If that my eyes deceive me not, I see My Empire is comprised within my nail: What a poor point I me Master of? a blot Made by the swiftest tincture of the Ink? But what did this point cost me? this small blot? My innocence, my conscience, my soul; I killed a Nephew, to obtain this blot. O horrid purchase! all this toil, this guilt For so despised a Nothing? let me see, Here is no room to sit, to walk, to stand, In all my land I cannot place myself, Nor be at all, where I would be the Duke. But the sad tapers do deny their light, And stranger fire supplies an horrid day Of Lightning: help us, heaven, make us confess, There is a Power in your Mercy too.
seed 43: T13 · seed 44: T16 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Whether their owne neglect forc'd them to want, Or want to yeeld, 'tis doubted: but they yeeld: Thus as in triuiall ſports we oft haue ſeene After a tedious inconſtancy, The Corke returne to him that ſtrucke it firſt, So in this fatall reuolution, Fortune giues Naples vnto him againe▪ Whom ſhe firſt iniur'd in the taking it. Who hearing this would not erect his ſoule To a contempt▪ of Fortune! that blind wretch Whom onely ſottiſhneſſe hath Deifi'd? Man hath a nobler Godhead in himſelfe, His vertue and his wiſdome, vnto theſe▪ Bend all our knees▪ let vs ſtill honour theſe: And count it comfort in our loweſt ſtate, He that is vvie, would not be fortunate. WE leaue it to your care, Sanſeuerin; But ſee the night grows old, good reſt my Lords▪ Why ſtayſt thou▪ my Aurelio? good boy Ile ſee no bed to night; then goe, yet ſtay, If they haue not eſcap'd thy memory Sing me thoſe verſes which you made of ſleepe. HOw I laugh at their fond wiſh whoſe deſire aymes no higher Then the bayts of Midas diſh? What is Gold but yellow durt? which th'vnkind heauens refin'd When they made vs loue our hurt. Would to heau'n that I might ſteepe my faint eyes in the wiſe, In the gentle dew of ſleepe? Whoſe effects doe poſe vs ſo, that we deeme it does ſeeme Both Deaths brother and his foe. This does alwayes with vs keepe, and being dead that's not fled: Death is but a longer ſleepe. Pretty Philoſophy! goe boy, goe ſleepe, Enioy the good thou ſing'ſt—this boy can ſleepe, Sleepe quietly, and ſing himſelfe aſleepe: Making that gentle Reſt vnto his Song. But lle goe read: what haue we here? a Map? Welcome thou liuely picture of the world: Now Ile peruſe my large Dominions, What a vaſt compaſſe they doe fill in thee? How Poe is wearied with his tedious courſe, But running onely through our Continent? Ha! where is Poe? which is our Continent? If that my eyes deceiue me not, I ſee My Empire is compriz'd within my nayle: What a poore point I me Maſter of? a blot▪ Made by the ſwifteſt tincture of the Inke? But what did this point coſt me? this ſmall blot? My innocence, my conſcience, my ſoule; I kill'd a Nephew, to obtaine this blot. O horrid purchaſe! all this toyle, this guilt For ſo deſpis'd a Nothing? let me ſee, Here is no roome to ſit, to walke, to ſtand, In all my land I cannot place my ſelfe, Nor be at all, where I would be the Duke. But the ſad tapers doe deny their light, And ſtranger fire ſupplyes an horrid day Of Lightning: help vs, heau'n, make vs confeſs, There is a Power in your Mercy too.