Selected quad for the lemma: cause_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
cause_n	body_n	great_a	soul_n	2,575	5	4.9117	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A06411	Lucans Pharsalia containing the ciuill warres betweene Cæsar and Pompey. Written in Latine heroicall verse by M. Annæus Lucanus. Translated into English verse by Sir Arthur Gorges Knight. Whereunto is annexed the life of the authour, collected out of diuers authors.; Pharsalia. English	Lucan, 39-65.; Gorges, Arthur, Sir, 1557?-1625.; Gorges, Carew.	1614 (1614)	STC 16884; ESTC S103371	257,632	472

knowne But that his corps a head hath none ¶ And yet before the Conqueror Arriued on the Pharian shore Fortune for Pompey tooke some care And did in hast his tombe prepare Whereby he should not want a graue Although no fitting buriall haue For Codrus that there hidden lay Came fearefully downe to the bay This man that crept so from his den Was one of Pompeys haplesse men And lately made his Treasurer When they put from the Cyprus shore He durst come out in darke of night And loue vnto his feare gaue might To seeke the body in the maine To bring it to the land againe And to the shore his Pompey traine The Moone a little glimmering lent Which through the duskie clouds she sent Whereby the body he discouerd That with a differing colour houered Vpon the waues that strugling make When in his armes he did him take And being tired with the fraight He hop't the wane would lift the waight The which it did and with that aid The corps he to the shore conuaide And on the land where it lay drie Vpon the body he did lie And wailing there twixt griefe and feares He euery wound did fill with teares And to the Gods and stars in skies He thus poures out his wofull cries ¶ Thy Pompey doth not of thee craue O Fortune any glorious graue Nor yet that gums of pleasant sent Vpon his funerall be sprent Nor that the fat his members yeelds Mixt with the drugs of Easterne fields With orders should perfume that aire Which smoaking to the skies repaire Nor that with loue the Romans led To their deare parent being dead Should him vpon their shoulders place His day of funeral to grace Nor that the pompe of his last date Should all exceed in glorious state Nor that the court with heauie notes Should singing straine their wailing throtes Nor that the armie in a file Should march about the flaming pile And throw their weapons down the while Giue Pompey but a common chest Wherein his bones may safely rest And that his rent torne lims may burne Together and to ashes turne And that I miserable wight This to performe may want no might A worthlesse man his fire to light It is enough ô Gods diuine That there is wanting at his shrine Cornelia with disheueled tresse And that she cannot here expresse Poore soule to him her latest vowes With deare embracements of her spouse And on his face her teares deplore Though farre shee be not from this shore ¶ As soone as he these words had spoke Farre off he spide a fire and smoke VVhere some base body was a burning VVithout attendance or friends mourning From thence some fire he takes away And brands that with the body lay VVho so thou art quoth he that heere Neglected burnst to no man deare Then Pompey yet thou happier art Be not displeased for thy part That my last hands do thus beguile Some portion of thy funerall pile And if that any sence remaine In mortals that deaths dart hath slaine Then giue me leaue I thee desire To take this pittance from thy fire I shame to see thy Cinders burne Whilst fire shall want for Pompeys vrne So said the kindled brands he takes And for the corpes a fire he makes Which then the tide had well neare reacht But some part on the strand lay streacht From it the sands he wipes away And then together he doth lay The broken fragments of a boate With fearefull hand which there did float In a foule ditch somewhat remote No heaped stacke of oaken piles These noble lims did presse the whiles Vnder the corps no wood was laid But to this slender flame conuaid A loft the body burning staid ¶ He sitting downe hard by the flame Thus said O Captaine great of name Chiefe maiestie of Roman fame If that the tossing of the seas And no graue would thee better please Then this poore obsequie of mine Let thy braue spright and soule diuine These my endeauours nought esteeme But iniury of Fate it deeme That I haue thought this lawfull done Thereby thy bodies spoiles to shun From monsters of the raging waues And from those beasts on flesh that raues And from the vultures greedy mawes And from the wrath of Caesars pawes Therefore in worth accept of me This last fire that I offer thee If so it with thy honor stand Now kindled with a Roman hand But if that Fortune do recoyle And bring thy friends to Latium soyle Thy sacred Cyndars may find grace To be lodg'd in a worthier place So as Cornelia Pompeys spouse May yeeld to thee more glorious vowes And with my helpe that now thee burne May put thy cinders in an vrne Meane while to shew where is thy graue Some litte stone a marke shall haue Vpon this shore that if some frend Thy greater honor do intend And would thy death more eternize He may know where thy body lies And to great Pompey here laid dead He may againe restore the head Thus hauing said doth fuell adde To this small fire that burnes so sad And then the fat that in it fries Doth cause the flame aloft to rise And to the fire giue fresh supplies By this Auroras blushing face The glittring stars away did chace And he poore soule with maze afright Disorderly breakes of this right And in a corner shuns the light ¶ Vaine man what feare doth thee distract For thy performance of this act Whereby vnto all future dayes Thy fame with honor thou dost raise Since wicked Caesar will commend These bones so buried by a frend Go safely and desire to haue The head likewise to lay in graue For pietie bids thee not shun To end this duttie well begun Then doth he take these bones halfe burnd And members not to ashes turnd Which he together doth dispose And in a little pit inclose Then lest the wind the sand should raise Vpon the graue a stone he layes And that no Marriners should bind Their Cable where this stone they find About the same and it displace Vpon the top he did inchace The sacred name with a burnt brand Pompey lies buried in this sand Where Caesar rather would he lay Then want his graue or funerall day But ô rash hand that dost suppose In such a sepulcher to close Great Pompey and his wandring ghost That rangeth ouer euery coast As farre as any land extends And to the vtmost Oceans ends The Empire large and name of Rome The true tipe is of Pompeys tombe Remoue this stone for very shame Which to the Gods imputeth blame If Hercules must needs haue all Mount Oete for his funerall And Bacchus must with like accompt Take all Parnassus sacred mount Why then should one Egyptian stone Suffise for Pompeys tombe alone All Egypt should stand for his graue If no stone his inscription haue We Romans shal be still in dread Lest we on Pompeys ashes tread When we do range

that supreme humane pride That will all honour ouer-stride Then will his noble death beseeme The Fates that him so worthy deeme O let him liue and proudly raigne And then by Brutus sword be slaine ¶ Here now our Countries glory dies Here in a heape confused lies The old Patrician Roman gore Mixt with Plebeian bloudy store And yet amidst this butcherie Of Heroick Nobilitie Domitius stout that death of thine Aboue the rest most cleare did shine Whom fate did oft oppresse and tosse For Fortune still did Pompey crosse Where thou madst one and still hadst losse So often wert thou Caesars pray But now hast clos'd thy latest day With liberty preserued free Which makes those many wounds to thee Pleasing whereof thou now must dye And no more Caesars pardons try But Caesar chanc't that way to passe Where he in gore blood wallowing was And tauntingly vnto him spake Domitius thou that soughtst to take My charge from me and gouerne Gaule Pompey thou canst not serue at all Without thee this warre we shall trye No more he said Then to reply His panting breast him life affoords And thus pronounc't his dying words Caesar thou hast not yet the meed Of thy accursed wicked deed Doubtfull as yet doth stand thy fate And lesse in shew then Pompeys state I one of Pompeys traine doe goe Freely vnto the shades below And safely thither doe I wend And yet by that these warres haue end I well may hope when I am dead Wracke shall befall thy wretched head And vengeance due shall on thee light And yeeld both me and Pompey right So hauing said did life resigne And deaths darke hand clos'd vp his eyne ¶ In vaine alas what should I shed Teares here vpon the thousands dead Of those that from the worlds each part Did finde their ends in this dire Mart Or why should I but single out Some priuate fates in this huge rout Whose bowels pierc't with deadly wounds Their latest liuing dayes confounds Or who on earth dead bodies spurnes Or who their bloody swords poynts turnes Vpon their breast that gasping lye To free their soules that lingring dye Or who at one blow downe is cast Or who with hewd limbes standeth fast Or who with darts doth bodies wound Or with his launce nailes men to ground Or whose veins pierc't whence blood flies out Into the aire and doth besprout The Armour of his murdring foe Who slaies his brother at a blow And as a stranger doth him spoyle Cuts off his head and in the soyle Doth hide the same to hide his guilt Or who his fathers bloud hath spilt And mangled hath his face the while The lookers on so to beguile And doth it with such ragefull ire As t were some foe and not his sire No one mans death can claime lament To waile men now no time is lent The slaughters of Pharsalias field Is nothing such as others yeeld There priuate Fates the warres attends Here Rome and all her people ends There warre to death doth souldiers call But here at once whole Nations fall The Grecian peoples bloud here streames The Ponticke and Assirian realmes And now the bloud of Romans slaine In torrents fleets on that againe And with her ouer-flowing store Sweepes from the fields Barbarian gore More people in this battaile slaine Then our age can supply againe T is more then life and health that 's lost It hath the whole world ruine cost The sword vpon those bodies rages That should haue serued future ages What haue our children yet misdonne That they to seruile state must runne Or what fault in posterity Borne to be thralles to tyranny Haue we so cowardly borne Armes And offred vp our throats to harmes The burthen of anothers feare Vpon our shoulders must we beare O Fortune if thou needs wouldst call Our sonnes to be a tyrants thrall Thou shouldst haue giuen them warres withall ¶ Now doth vnhappy Pompey finde The Gods and Roman Fates vnkinde And ere the fight was throughly ended His cursed fortune he condemned Whilst in the field hee stood on hye Vpon a hill and thence did eye The slaughters and the troopes ramuerst Throughout Pharsalias field disperst The which the fight before did hide He multitudes sees on his side Of weapons and of bodies lost And his owne wracke at their blouds cost Yet did he not as wretches will Desire the whole with him should spill Nor in his ruine wrap them all But on the heauenly powers did call That yet the greatest part might thriue Of Latium blood and him suruiue This is his comfort in annoy O Gods quoth he doe not destroy So many Nations at a clappe The world may stand free from mishappe And Rome may many ages flourish Although that Pompey sinke and perish But if it so your likings please More woes on me to heape then these My wife and children yet subsist For Fates to do with what they list Hath not this ciuill warre cost deere If I and mine must perish heere May not such wounds be deemed wide Though all the world escape beside O Fortune why dost thou so racke And labour to bring all to wracke Nothing is mine I all things lacke So hauing said he rides about The Ensignes and the Armes in rout And in each part throughout the lands Sees how his squadrons broken stands Whom he retraits and doth restraine From running to their deaths amaine He values not himselfe so much That for his sake harme should them touch And yet his courage did not faile The swords and weapons to assaile Or put his life to hazards chance Or vnto death his breast aduance He fear'd if Pompey there should dye The Souldiers would no dangers flye But on his body heaped lye Besides he fouly did despise To lye a scorne to Caesars eyes Yet if thy father-in-law affect To cast his eyes on that prospect Thy head to him will be presented It cannot be by place preuented And thou his wife wert partly cause Why from this slaughter he with-drawes To see thy face for Fates ordaine That in thy sight he should be slaine Then he a Courser swift bestrides And posting from the battaile rides Feare makes him not to turne his backe His heart did neuer courage lacke In most distresse his minde was stout Nor plaints nor teares he powreth out But such a reuerent griefe exprest As with a Maiesty fits best For him at that time to bestow On Roman fortune brought so low And with like constancy beheld The downe-falles of Emathia's field Nor prosperous wars could make thee proud Nor ouer-throwes thy courage cloud That faithlesse Fortune flattring thee With glorious pompe in triumphes three Thou now dost scorne with lesse account And makes thy minde her force surmount Securely thou from hence dost part Freed from the cumbrous cares of Mart. And now at large thou leasure hast To ruminate thy glories past Ambitious hopes neuer suffis'd From thee are fled and now despis'd Now maist