Fletcher, John / Massinger, Philip · published 1637 · first performed or written 1625(?) (Annals) comedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T62 The courtier as a type: fashion, affecta · 539 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T62: courtier, shrug, face, court, italian, monsieur, scholar, fashion, french, courtiers.
And now I have it, leave me, y'are infectious, The plague and leprosy of your baseness spreading On all that do come near you, such as you Render the Throne of Majesty, the Court Suspected and contemptible, you are scarabs That batten in her dung, and have no palates To taste her curious viands, and like Owls Can only see her night deformities, But with the glorious splendour of her beauties You are struck blind as Moles, that undermine The sumptuous building that allowed you shelter, You stick like running ulcers on her face, And taint the pureness of her native candour, And being bad servants cause your master's goodness To be disputed of; make you the Court That is the abstract of all Academies, To teach and practise noble undertakings (Where courage sits triumphant crowned with Laurel, And wisdom loaded with the weight of honour) A School of vices. What sudden rapture's this? A heavenly one that raising me from sloth and ignorance, (In which your conversation long hath charmed me) Carries me up into the air of action, And knowledge of myself; even now I feel But pleading only in the Courts-defence, (Though far short of her merits and bright lustre) A happy alteration, and full strength To stand her Champion against all the world, That throw aspersions on her. Sure he'll beat us, I see it in his eyes. A second Charles; Pray look not Sir so furiously. Recant What you have said, ye mongrels, and lick up The vomit you have cast upon the Court, Where you unworthily have had warmth and breeding, And swear that you like Spiders, have made poison Of that which was a saving antidote. We will swear any thing. We honour the Court As a most sacred place. And will make oath, If you enjoin us to't, nor knave, nor fool, Nor Coward living in it. Except you two, You Rascals! Yes, we are all these, and more, If you will have it so. And that until You are again reformed and grown new men, You ne'er presume to name the Court, or press Into the porter's Lodge but for a penance, To be disciplined for your roguery, and this done With true contrition. Yes Sir. You again, May eat scraps and be thankful. Here's a cold breakfast After a sharp nights walking. Keep your oaths, And without grumbling vanish. We are gone, Sir. May all the poorness of my spirit go with you, The fetters of my thraldom are filed off: And I at liberty to right myself, And though my hope in Angellina's little, My honour (unto which compared she's nothing) Shall like the Sun disperse those lowering Clouds, That yet obscure and dim it; not the name Of brother shall divert me, but from him, That in the world's opinion ruined me, I will seek reparation, and call him Unto a strict account. Ha! 'tis near day, And if the muse's friend rose-cheeked Aurora, Invite him to this solitary grove, As I much hope she will, he seldom missing To pay his vows here to her, I shall hazard To hinder his devotions— The door opens.— 'tis he most certain, and by's side my sword, Blessed opportunity.
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)
And now I have it, leave me, y'are infectious, The plague and leprosie of your basenesse spreading On all that doe come neere you, such as you Render the Throne of Majesty, the Court Suspected and contemptible, you are Scarabee's That batten in her dung, and have no pallats To taste her curious viands, and like Owles Can onely see her night deformities, But with the glorious splendor of her beauties You are strucke blinde as Moles, that undermine The sumptuous building that allow'd you shelter, You sticke like running ulcers on her face, And taint the purenesse of her native candor, And being bad servants cause your masters goodnesse To be disputed of; make you the Court That is the abstract of all Academies, To teach and practice noble undertakings (Where courage sits triumphant crown'd with Lawrell, And wisedome loaded with the weight of honour) A Schoole of vices. What sudden rapture's this? A heavenly one that raising me from sloth and ignorance, (In which your coversation long hath charm'd me) Carries me up into the aire of action, And knowledge of my selfe; even now I feele But pleading onely in the Courts-defence, (Though farre short of her merits and bright lustre) A happy alteration, and full strength To stand her Champion against all the world, That throw aspersions on her. Sure hee'll beat us, I see it in his eyes. A second Charles; Pray looke not Sir so furiously. Recant What you have said, ye Mungrils, and licke up The vomit you have cast upon the Court, Where you unworthily have had warmth and breeding, And sweare that you like Spiders, have made poyson Of that which was a saving antidote. We will sweare any thing. We honour the Court As a most sacred place. And will make oath, If you enjoyne us to't, nor knave, nor foole, Nor Coward living in it. Except you two, You Rascals! Yes, we are all these, and more, If you will have it so. And that untill You are againe reform'd and growne new men, You nere presume to name the Court, or presse Into the Porters Lodge but for a penance, To be disciplin'd for your roguery, and this done With true contrition. Yes Sir. You againe, May eat scraps and be thankfull. Here's a cold breakfast After a sharpe nights walking. Keepe your oathes, And without grumbling vanish. We are gone, Sir. May all the poorenesse of my spirit goe with you, The fetters of my thraldome are fil'd off: And I at liberty to right my selfe, And though my hope in Angellina's little, My honour (unto which compar'd shee's nothing) Shall like the Sunne disperse those lowring Clouds, That yet obscure and dimme it; not the name Of brother shall divert me, but from him, That in the worlds opinion ruin'd me, I will seeke reparation, and call him Unto a strict accompt. Ha! 'tis neere day, And if the Muses friend rose-cheek'd Aurora, Invite him to this solitary grove, As I much hope she will, he seldome missing To pay his vowes here to her, I shall hazard To hinder his devotions—The doore opens.— Tis he most certaine, and by's side my sword, Blest opportunity.