Nabbes, Thomas · published 1637 · first performed or written 1635 (Annals) tragedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T21 Cupid, Venus and the nymphs · 528 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T21: cupid, venus, love, ceres, diana, fair, nymphs, goddess, bow, damon.
Then to be clothed In silks of Tyrian die; to sleep on down, And waking clasp a Goddess in ones arms, Lovely as Cytharea; revel sometimes, And dance to th'mermaid's music, till the night Is made one artificial day, inverting The course of time and's actions: oh delights, Beyond weak comprehension! we begin To taste them without sense, did not diversity Whet appetite anew? Yet so much change Should make invention barren: but 'tis fruitful, Pregnant, and teems as fast as 'tis delivered. Delicious Capua! pleasure's only storehouse! Were I an Hannibal? and conquest quiet me As fair as daylight spreads his crystal wings. One Capua should ransom all. What's here? she courts him with as earnest zeal, as Cynthia Would her Endymion, or the gray-eyed Morn Her early Cephalus. Now by my Sword. Is that a Soldier's oath in Capua? By the bright tresses of my Mistress hair, Fine as Arachne's web, or gossimer: Whose curls when garnished with their dressing, show Like that spun vapour when 'tis pearled with dew. Or by the Sunshine of her crystal eyes, Wherein the God of Love his wet wings dries After his bathing in sad Lovers tears. These are the only oaths a Soldier swears. What should we do with swords? Indeed 'tis true Their bloody use hath been so long neglected, And for my part I am so cloyed with women, Mine must be filled to powder, and prepared To be their Physic: the green-sickness else Will not be cured by me. Mine shall be drawn To wear for pins: and that which oft hath reigned The blood of Romans on my hilts and hand, Wearied almost with slaughter, shall be touched With trembling fingers, white as Othris snow; Whilst the soft handler starts, if by mischance The point but prick her skin, and must consult With some learned unguentary to prevent Th'invisible scar. Why here we cannot quarrel Amongst ourselves for wenches. There's a Lady, As mean a beauty heretofore hath been The ground of a sad war, or in a Camp Served up a mutiny: we cannot envy it, That he, a common Soldier, valour's cipher, One only pressed to make the number up, enjoys her wholly, and perhaps hath change. Nay, stands upon nice terms for his reward; And must be hired to pleasure, such as some Would even through any danger to embrace. Prithee observe.. Why should I be denied? Am I not fair enough? My beauty fresh As the new springs, when wanton Phoebus mounts His burnished chariot early to salute her, And kiss dew from her cheeks. There are as fair And free. A pension Lady must be thought of; I cannot else be sportive. Is tha all? I'll full thy burgonet with Iberian gold Stamped into medals; Sell my wanton treasury, Rings, jewels, Carcanets, ere thou shalt want, But what thy wish can covet. This old buff Would be translated. Into Persian mantles, Richly embroidered; no rough pelt of thrumbs To fight with weather. Shalt be clothed in silks, Such as may vie for touch with their softness When it is calmest, and no violent gust Doth wave it into wrinkles.
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 to be cloth'd In silkes of Tyrian dye; tosleepe on downe, And waking claspe a Goddesse in ones armes, Lovely as Cytharea; revell sometimes, And dance to th'Mermaides musicke, 'till the night Is made one artificiall day, inverting The course of time and's actions: oh delights, Beyond weake comprehension! Wee begin To taste them without sense, did not diversity Whet appetite anew? Yet so much change Should make invention barren: but 'tis fruitfull, Pregnant, and teemes as fast as 'tis delivered. Delicious Capua! Pleasures onely storehouse! Were I an Hanniball? and conquest quiet me As faire as day-light spreads his christall wings. One Capua should ransome all. What's here? Shee courts him with as earnest zeale, as Cynthia Would her Endymion, or the gray-ey'd Morne Her earely Cephalus. Now by my Sword. Is that a Souldiers oath in Capua? By the bright tresses of my Mistresse haire, Fine as Arachne's webbe, or Gosshimere: Whose curles when garnisht with their dressing, show Like that spunne vapour when 'tis pearl'd with dew. Or by the Sunshine of her christall eyes, Wherein the God of Love his wet wings dry's After his bathing in sad Lovers teares. These are the onely oathes a Souldier sweares. What should we doe with swords? Indeed 'tis true Their bloody use hath beene so long neglected, And for my part I am so cloy'd with women, Mine must bee fil'd to powder, and prepar'd To bee their Physick: the greene-sicknesse else Will not bee cur'd by me. Mine shall be drawne To weare for pinnes: and that which oft hath raign'd The blood of Romanes on my hilts and hand, Wearied almost with slaughter, shall bee toucht With trembling fingers, white as Othris snow; Whilst the soft handler starts, if by mischance The point but prick her skin, and must consult With some learn'd unguentary to prevent Th'invisible scarre. Why here we cannot quarrell Amongst ourselves for wenches. There's a Lady, As meane a beauty heretofore hath beene The ground of a sad warre, or in a Campe Sur'd up a mutiny: wee cannot envie it, That he, a common Souldier, valours ciphar, One onely prest to make the number up, Enjoves her wholly, and perhaps hath change. Nay, stands upon nice for his reward; And must bee hir'd to pleasure, such as some Would even through any danger to embrace. Prethee observ.. Why should I be deny'd? Am I not faire enough? My beauty fresh As the new springs, when wanton Phoebus mounts His ournish't chariot early to salute her, And ksse dew from her cheekes. There are as faite And free. A pension Lady must be thought of; I cannot else be sportive. Is tha all? Ile ful thy burgnet with Iberian gold Stampt into medals; Sell my wanton treasurie, Rings, Iewels, Catkanets, e're thou shalt want, But what thy wish can covet. This old buffe Would be translated. Into Persian mantles, Richly embroydred; no rough pelt of thrumbes To fight with weather. Shalt be cloath'd in silkes, Such as may vye for touch with their softnesse When it is calmest, and no violent gust Doth wave it into wrinckles.