The Raging Turk, or Bajazet the Second · chunk 43 of 51
Goffe, Thomas · published 1631 · first performed or written 1618 [c.1613-c.1618] (Annals) tragedy · at University unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 504 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
Then thus: to night here present on this plain, You may encounter two fierce enemies, Achomates, and Cherseogles, both at the full stroke of twelve. How (Mesithes) we're blessed. This night at twelve of the clock? Upon my life— What shall we do? But meet me on this plain At the appointed hour, and I will place You three aside, from whence you shall oppress Your foes at unawares. Is it a match? 'Tis done at twelve a clock. See thou prove faithful. If I shrink in aught That I profess, death strike me to the grave. So thrive all falsehood and each perjured slave. How easily base minds are drawue to strike Their foes at least advantage— beauteous morn, Pale witness to a thousand deeds of sin Veil up thy light, that darkness may help on These black stratagems, and unhallowed hands Strike in mistaken bodies, even soul Themselves adore, and cheerfully defend, But time grows fast upon me, hit all right Two Princes, and three Bassas die this night. Heaven whither run these projects? is the thought Of man so senseless, void of wit, yet fraught With threatening ambition? to what end Doth this distempered madness headlong bend? Bless me my Genius from these hated toils Of murdering warfare, and these sweeting broils, Of watchful policy; Phoebus let it be That I may know no other god but thee. Learned experience says, ambiguous fates Vex eminent fortunes, and he only stands Without the beams of envy, whom the hands Of some propitious power, hath ranked below Those short delights that troubled thoughts do know; A Crown's a golden mark, which being hit, Falls not alone, but off the head with it: Honours are smoky, nothing, then let the Queen Of learning, great Minerva, and the nine chaste sisters, that adorn the Grecian hill, Devote me to themselves, but let me still Within Apollo's sacred Temple sit, And spend my body to increase my wit; Reign Selimus, for I shall ne'er thee hate, Thy supreme power, nor envy thy state, Corcutus stands divorced from a life, Engaged to vain ambition factious state, And empty power of Kings; he's great in fame Not who seeks after, but neglects the same. Since thou hast grieved me Phoebus, free my wit, That I my ease my grief by speaking it; If thou deniest fond god, 'twill be in vain, Sorrow can sing, though thou not tune the strain. Then thou sweet Muse from whence there flows, words able to express our ill, Teach me to warble out my woes, and with a sigh each accent fill: Infuse my breast with doleful strains, Whose heavy note may speak my pains, O let me sigh, and sighing weep, Till night deprive my woes with sleep. The pleasing murmurers of the air, that gently fan each moving thing, I being heard, strait do repair, and bear a burden whilst I sing, An heavy burden doleful song, The father's grief the subjects wrong, O let me sigh, and sighing weep,
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Then thus: to night here present on this plaine, You may encounter two fierce enemies, Achomates, and Cherseogles, both at the full stroake of twelue. How (Mesithes) we're blest. This night at twelue of the clocke? Vpon my life— What shall we doe? But meete mee on this plaine At the appointed houre, and I will place You three aside, from whence you shall oppresse Your foes at vnawares. Is it a match? 'Tis done at twelue a clocke. See thou proue faithfull. If I shrinke in ought That I professe, death strike me to the graue. So thriue all falshood and each perjur'd slaue. How easily base minds are drawue to strike Their foes at least aduantage—beauteous morne, Pale witnesse to a thousand deeds of sinne Vaile vp thy light, that darkenesse may helpe on These blacke stratagems, and vnhallowed hands Strike in mistaken bodies, euen th soule Themselues adore, and cheerefully defend, But time growes fast vpon me, hit all right Two Princes, and three Bassaes dye this night. Heauen whither run these projects? is the thought Of man so sencelesse, void of wit, yet fraught With threatning ambition? to what end Doth this ditempered madnesse headlong bend? Blesse me my Genius from these hated toyles Of murdering warfare, and these sweating broyles, Of watchfull policy; Phoebus let it be That I may know no other god but thee. Learned experience sayes, ambiguous fates Vexe eminent fortunes, and he onely stas Without the beames of enuy, whom the hands Of some propitious power, hath ranckt below Those short delights that troubled thoughts doe know; A Crown's a golden marke, which being hit, Falls not alone, but off the head with it: Honors are smoakie, nothing, then let the Queene Of learning, great Minerua, and the nine Chast sisters, that adorne the Grecian hill, Devote me to themselues, but let me still Within Apollos sacred Temple sit, And spend my body to encrease my wit; Raigne Selymus, for I shall ne're thee hate, Thy supreame power, nor enuy thy state, Corcutus stands diuorced from a life, Engag'd to vaine ambition factious state, And emptie power of Kings; Hee's great in fame Not who seekes after, but neglects the same. Since thou hast grieu'd me Phoebus, free my wit, That I my ease my griefe by speaking it; If thou deny'st fond god, twill be in vaine, Sorrow can sing, though thou not tune the straine. Then thou sweete Muse from whence there flowes, words able to expresse our ill, Teach me to warble out my woes, and with a sigh each accent fill: Infuse my breast with dolefull straines, Whose heauy note may speake my paines, O let me sigh, and sighing weepe, Till night depriue my woes with sleepe. The pleasing murmurers of the ayre, that gently fanne each mouing thing, I being heard, straight doe repayre, and beare a burden whilst I sing, An heauy burden dolefull song, The fathers griefe the subiects wrong, O let me sigh, and sighing weepe,