Heywood, Thomas · published 1637 · first performed or written 1635 (Annals) classical legend or myth T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses typicality 0.87 · 472 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
Weak brat resolve me, By whose enticement thou hast been so bold To take to thee the emblem of my power? Is't not sufficient, thou with brainsick toys Canst fill the heads of mad men and of fools, Who'ascribe to thee a godhead, merely usurped? But thou must wear my due Impresa insculpt, And ('bout thy shoulders) those known ornaments, Apollinis insignia? (Apollo's Ensigns) And why thy? Because I an styled the god of Archery; And where I aim I hit, my prey or enemy, Kill near or far. The monstrous serpent Python (Whose bulk being slain, an hundred acres spread) Had from this bow his wounds, and I my honours: And shall a child boast eminence with me? Phoebus, thy bow hath monsters strooke to ground, But mine hath power the gods themselves to wound, Of which thou art not least. Mother he's sped, He shoot I have pierced him home with my shafts golden head. Thou art mine own sweet boy, thy darts ne'er fails And now Apollo languish and look pale, Moore wan than did thy sister Moon once prove, When for Endymion she was sick of love, Whilst I laugh and rejoice. Now make all sure, And strike fair Daphne whilst she sleeps secure, But with contempt and hate. My arrow fly's, And as it hits, sick of disdain she lies. Now mother let's away. Phoebus, I divine, Thou'It say his shafts can wound as deep as thy. What alteration's this I feel? a heat Beyond mine own fire, kindled at mine eye. All sleep is still in darkness, yet our souls See when our eyes are shut. My breast's in uproar; And yet a dream tells me, the morning grey Says the Sun's up, I shame to look on day. What beauty's this on earth, transpiercing more, Than can the beams from my celestial Orb? The Sun is up; Awake: What, shame you not That he should find you sleeping? Sweet Nymph stay. The shades best please me, I in them will play; The Sun's too hot and sultry. I an he That measures out the year; and shun you me Fairest of thy sex, behold the Sun's bright eye, That all things seas, by whom you all things spy. Will you in everlasting darkness devil? Light is heaven's emblem, and becomes it well: Where I appear, I comfort and make glad; Be comforted in me, why are you sad? Would you in blindness live? these rays of mine Give that reflect by which your Beauties shine, For what are artificial lights? when I Appear in fullness they soon faint and die. They only put on counterfeits: my rays False colours find, and give the true the praise. If yours be such, than prove them by my light, The world will censure they are pure and right.
seed 43: T29 · seed 44: T27 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Weake brat reſolue me, By whoſe inticement thou haſt bin ſo bold To take to thee the embleme of my power? Is't not ſufficient, thou with brain-ſicke toyes Canſt fill the heads of mad men and of fooles, Who'aſcribe to thee a god-head, meerly uſurpt? But thou muſt weare my due Impreſa inſculpt, And ('bout thy ſhoulders) thoſe known ornaments, Apollinis inſignia? (Apollo's Enſignes) And why thine? Becauſe I am ſtyl'd the god of Archerie; And where I aime I hit, my prey or enemy, Kill neere or far. The monſtrous ſerpent Python (Whoſe bulke being ſlaine, an hundred acres ſpred) Had from this bow his wounds, and I my honors: And ſhall a childe boaſt eminence with me? Phoebus, thy bow hath monſters ſtrooke to ground, But myne hath power the gods themſelves to wound, Of which thou art not leaſt. Mother he's ſped, He ſhoot I have pierc'd him home with my ſhafts golden head. Thou art myne own ſweet boy, thy darts ne're fail And now Apollo languiſh and looke pale, More wan than did thy ſiſter Moon once prove, When for Endymion ſhe was ſicke of love, Whil'ſt I laugh and reioyce. Now make all ſure, And ſtrike faire Daphne whil'ſt ſhe ſleepes ſecure, But with contempt and hate. My arrow flies, And as it hits, ſicke of diſdain ſhe lies. Now mother let's away. Phoebus, I divine, Thou'It ſay his ſhafts can wound as deep as thine. What alteration's this I feele? a heate Beyond myne owne fire, kindled at myne eye. All ſleep is ſtill in darkneſſe, yet our ſoules See when our eies are ſhut. My breſt's in uprore; And yet a dream tels me, the morning gray Sayes the Sun's up, I ſhame to looke on day. What Beautie's this on earth, tranſpiercing more, Than can the beams from my celeſtial Orbe? The Sun is up; Awake: What, ſhame you not That he ſhould finde you ſleeping? Sweet Nymph ſtay. The ſhades beſt pleaſe me, I in them will play; The Sun's too hot and ſultry. I am hee That meaſures out the yeare; and ſhun you me Fair'ſt of thy ſex, behold the Suns bright eye, That all things ſees, by whom you all things ſpy. Will you in everlaſting darkneſſe dwell? Light is heavens emblem, and becomes it well: Where I appeare, I comfort and make glad; Be comforted in me, why are you ſad? Would you in blindneſſe live? theſe raies of myne Give that reflect by which your Beauties ſhine, For what are artificial lights? when I Appeare in fulneſſe they ſoon faint and die. They only put on counterfeits: my rayes Falſe colours finde, and give the true the praiſe. If yours be ſuch, then prove them by my light, The world will cenſure they are pure and right.