Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
SInce that the gods will not my woe redress, Since men are altogether pitiless, Ye silent ghosts unto my plaints give ear; Give ear (I say, ye ghosts) if ghosts can hear: And listen to my plaints that do excel The dolorous tune of ravished Philomel. Now let Ixion's wheel stand still a while, Let Danaus' daughters now surcease their toil: Let Sisyphus rest on his restless stone, Let not the Apples fly from Plotas son; And let the full gorged Vulture cease to tear The growing liver of the ravisher; Let these behold my sorrows, and confess Their pains do far come short of my distress. Were I but Lady of more wealthy store Then e'er the Sun beheld; or had I more Than Midas e'er desired; I would (in brief) Give all to be delivered from this grief. Rocks of rich Indian pearl, shores paved with gems, Mountains of gold, and empire's Diadems, These would I give, yea, and myself to boot, myself and these prostrating at his foot, To enjoy him whom I so dearly love. ay me, fond love, that art a sweet sour evil, A pleasant torture, a well-favoured devil. But why do I, weak wretch, prolong my grief? Why do I live, since death affords relief? Do thou (sweet poniard) all my sorrow's ease, That art a medicine for all grievances, Assist my hand, thou goddess of revenge, That on myself, I may myself avenge. Hold, hold thy hand, fair Shepherdess, Attempt not to commit a fact so horrid. What Fury sent you hither, Caitiffs vile, Thus to prolong my sorrow, and my toil. No Fury, but your happy Genius Brought us to these uncomfortable shades, For to prevent your mischievous intent. Death is a plaster for all ills (they say) What mischief then can be in death, I pray. 'Tis true; death is a mortal wound that cures all wounds Of body, and of mind: it is the soul's potion That purgeth her from corporal pollution. But you must not your own Physician prove, Not be the Doctor, and the Patient too: For if thy soul be sickly, and grow weary Of this unwholesome earthly habitation, Because this airs spissitude suits not With her Celestial Constitution, She must not like a bankrupt Tenant prove, That flies by night from an unprofitable Farm, Before the term of his Lease be expired: But stay till heaven shall give her egress free Unto the haven of rest and happiness. Were I not plunged in a grievous plight, Perhaps I would not think thy counsel light. Art not thou the sister of Cynosbatus, Lord of the silver mines, and golden mountains. And art not thou as fair a Shepherdess As trips upon the plains of Thessaly? For being great, I am maligned by Fate, For being fair, I am unfortunate. I know thy sorrows, sweetest Eglantine; Thy Rhodons absence hath wrought all thy woe, Who now, they say, doth beauteous Iris court. But if thou wilt make me thy instrument, I'll undertake to break the match, If not, renew the love which erst he bore to thee.
seed 43: T32 · seed 44: T26 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
SInce that the gods will not my woe redresse, Since men are altogether pittilesse, Ye silent ghosts unto my plaints give eare; Give eare (I say, ye ghosts) if ghosts can heare: And listen to my plaints that doe excell The dol'rous tune of ravish'd Philomel. Now let Ixions wheele stand still a while, Let Danaus daughters now surcease their toyle: Let Sisyphus rest on his restlesse stone, Let not the Apples flye from Plotas sonne; And let the full gorg'd Vultur cease to teare The growing liver of the ravisher; Let these behold my sorrowes, and confesse Their paines doe farre come short of my distresse. Were I but Lady of more wealthy store Then e're the Sunne beheld; or had I more Then Midas e're desir'd; I would (in briefe) Give all to be deliver'd from this griefe. Rocks of rich Indian pearle, shores pav'd with gemmes, Mountaines of gold, and Empires Diadems, These would I give, yea, and my selfe to boot, My selfe and these prostrating at his foot, To enioy him whom I so dearely love. Aye me, fond love, that art a sweet sower evill, A pleasant torture, a well-favour'd devill. But why doe I, weake wretch, prolong my griefe? Why doe I live, since death affords reliefe? Doe thou (sweet ponyard) all my sorrowes ease, That art a medicine for all grievances, Assist my hand, thou goddesse of revenge, That on my selfe, I may my selfe avenge. Hold, hold thy hand, faire Shepheardesse, Attempt not to commit a fact so horrid. What Fury sent you hither, Caitiffes vile, Thus to prolong my sorrow, and my toyle. No Fury, but your happy Genius Brought us to these uncomfortable shades, For to prevent your mischievous intent. Death is a plaister for all ills (they say) What mischiefe then can be in death, I pray. 'Tis true; death is a mortall wound that cures all wounds Of body, and of mind: it is the soules potion That purgeth her from corporall pollution. But you must not your owne Physician prove, Not be the Doctor, and the Patient too: For if thy soule be sickly, and grow weary Of this unwholesome earthly habitation, Because this ayres spissitude suits not With her Celestiall Constitution, She must not like a bankrupt Tenant prove, That flyes by night from an unprofitable Farme, Before the terme of his Lease be expir'd: But stay till heaven shall give her egresse free Vnto the haven of rest and happinesse. Were I not plunged in a grievous plight, Perhaps I would not thinke thy counsell light. Art not thou the sister of Cynosbatus, Lord of the silver mines, and golden mountaines. And art not thou as faire a Shepheardesse As trips upon the plaines of Thessaly? For being great, I am malign'd by Fate, For being faire, I am unfortunate. I know thy sorrowes, sweetest Eglantine; Thy Rhodons absence hath wrought all thy woe, Who now, they say, doth beauteous Iris court. But if thov wilt make me thy instrument, I'll undertake to breake the match, If not, renew the love which earst he bare to thee.