Coelum Britannicum (The British Heaven) · chunk 8 of 15
Carew, Thomas · published 1640 · first performed or written 1634 [Feb 18] (Annals) masque · before the Court unassigned nearest T37 Riches, poverty and covetousness · 544 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T37: wealth, riches, money, god, rich, poverty, men, learning, poor, ic.
Who's this appears? This is a subterranean Fiend, Plutus in this Dialect termed Riches, or the god of Gold; a Poison hid by Providence in the bottom of the Seas, and Navel of the Earth, from man's discovery, where if the seeds begun to sprout aboveground, the excrescence was carefully guarded by Dragons; yet at last by humane curiosity brought to light, to their own destruction; this being the true Pandora's box, whence issued all those mischiefs that now fill the Universe. That I prevent the message of the gods Thus with my haste, and not attend their summous; Which ought in justice call me to the place I now require of Right, is not alone To show the just precedence that I hold Before all earthly, next th'immortal Powers; But to exclude the hope of partial Grace In all Pretenders, who, since I descend To equal trial, must by my example, Waving your favour, claim by sole Desert. If Virtue must inherit, she's my slave; I lead her captive in a golden chain, About the world: She takes her Form and Being From my creation; and those barren seeds That drop from Heaven, if I not cherish them With my distilling dews, and sotive hear, They know no vegetation; but exposed To blasting winds of freezing Poverty, Or not shoot forth at all, or budding, whither: Should I proclaim the daily sacrifice Brought to my Temples by the toiling rout, Not of the fat and gore of abject Beasts, But humane sweat, and blood poured on my Altars, I might provoke the envy of the gods. Turn but your eyes and mark the busy world, Climbing steep Mountains for the sparkling stone, Piercing the Centre for the shining Ore, And th'ocean's bosom to rake pearly sands, Crossing the torrid and the frozen Zones, Midst Rocks and swallowing Gulfs, for gainful trade, And through opposing swords, fire, murdering Canon, Scaling the walled Towns for precious spoils. Plant in the passage to your heavenly seats, These horrid dangers, and then see who dares Advance his desperate foot; yet am I sought, And oft in vain, through these, and greater hazards; I could discover how your Deities Are for my sake slighted, despised, abused, Your Temples, Shrines, Altars, and Images Uncovered, rifled, robbed, and disarrayed By sacrilegious hands: yet is this treasure To th' golden Mountain, where I sit adored With superstitious solemn rights conveyed, And becomes sacred there, the sordid wretch Not daring touch the consecrated Ore, Or with profane hands lessen the bright heap; But this might draw your anger down on mortals For rendering me the homage due to you: Yet what is said may well express my power Too great for Earth, and only fit for Heaven. Now, for your pastime, view the naked root, Which in the dirty earth, and base mould drowned. Sends forth this precious Plant, and golden fruit. You lusty Swains, that to your grazing flocks Pipe amorous Roundelays; you toiling Hinds, That barb the fields, and to your merry Teams Whistle your passions; and you mining Moles, That in the bowels of your mother-Earth Dwell the eternal burden of her womb, Cease from your labours, when Wealth bids you play, Sing, dance, and keep a cheerful holiday.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T34 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Who's this appeares? This is a subterranean Fiend, Plutus in this Dialect term'd Riches, or the god of Gold; a Poyson hid by Providence in the botome of the Seas, and Navill of the Earth, from mans discovery, where if the seeds begunne to sprout above-ground, the excrescence was carefully guarded by Dragons; yet at last by humane curiosity brought to light, to their owne destruction; this being the true Pandora's box, whence issued all those mischiefes that now fill the Vniverse. That I prevent the message of the gods Thus with my haste, and not attend their summous; Which ought in Iustice call me to the place I now require of Right, is not alone To shew the just precedence that I hold Before all earthly, next th'immortall Powers; But to exclude the hope of partiall Grace In all Pretenders, who, since I descend To equall tryall, must by my example, Waving your favour, clayme by sole Desert. If Vertue must inherit, shee's my slave; I lead her captive in a golden chayne, About the world: Shee takes her Forme and Being From my creation; and those barren seeds That drop from Heaven, if I not cherish them With my distilling dewes, and sotive hear, They know no vegetation; but expos'd To blasting winds of freezing Poverty, Or not shoot forth at all, or budding, wither: Should I proclaime the daily sacrifice Brought to my Temples by the toyling rout, Not of the fat and gore of abject Beasts, But humane sweat, and blood powr'd on my Altars, I might provoke the envy of the gods. Turne but your eyes and marke the busie world, Climbing steepe Mountaines for the sparkling stone, Piercing the Center for the shining Ore, And th'Oceans bosome to rake pearly sands, Crossing the torrid and the frozen Zones, Midst Rocks and swallowing Gulfes, for gainful trade, And through opposing swords, fire, murdering Cano ▪ Skaling the walled Townes for precious spoyles. Plant in the passage to your heavenly seats, These horrid dangers, and then see who dares Advance his desperate foot; yet am I sought, And oft in vaine, through these, and greater hazards; I could discover how your Deitie Are for my sake sleighted, despis'd, abus'd, Your Temples, Shrines, Altars, and Images Vncover'd, rifled, robb'd, and disarray'd By sacrilegious hands: yet is this treasure To th' golden Mountaine, where I sit ador'd With superstitious solemne rights convay'd, And becomes sacred there, the sordid wretch Not daring touch the consecrated Ore, Or with prophane hands lessen the bright heape; But this might draw your anger downe on mortals For rendring me the homage due to you: Yet what is said may well expresse my power Too great for Earth, and only fit sor Heaven. Now, for your pastime, view the naked root, Which in the dirty earth, and base mould drown'd. Sends forth this precious Plant, and golden fruit. You lusty Swaines, that to your grazing flocks Pie amorous Roundelayes; you toyling Hinds, That barbe the fields, and to your merry Teames Whistle your passions; and you mining Moles, That in the bowels of your mother-Earth Dwell the eternall burthen of her wombe, Cease from your labours, when Wealth bids you play, Sing, dance, and keepe a cheerefull holy-day.