Heywood, Thomas · published 1637 · first performed or written 1635 (Annals) classical legend or myth unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
See, I an no Satire, Shepherd, or such as live by grazing herds, Delphos is mine, Pharos, and Tenedos: Thou knowest not who thou fliest, I an Apollo, The only god that speaks by Oracle: Iove is my father, and the Muses nine Are all my daughters: I an Patron held Of Numbers, Raptures, and sweet Poesy. My shafts are ever certain where they aim, (Yet one more certain, which hath pierced me deep) Physic is mine, I first devised that Art, And could it help me, I were than assured: But Love is by no Simples to be cured. OH now I an quite spent; help, goddess Iuno, (Queen of chaste marriage) bright Diana, help One of thy true vowed Virgins: change my shape, That I this hot adulterous Sun may scape. Thanks, o you Powers divine: the Spheres assent To my chaste prayer: your heavenly dooms are just. Here grow I fixed against all powers of lust. Strange prodigy! Less hope is in her stay, Than in her speed: her body's round encompassed With a rough rind, in which her warm heart beats. Her hair is all grown upward into boughs, Here milk white fingers and her arms advanced To great and lesser branches: her fair feet But late so swift, fast rooted in the earth: And I, whom Love late blinded, now may see My Daphne turned into a Laurel tree. Her life still struggles in the churlish bark, And from her lips I feel her breath still flow. One blessed kiss at parting, but in vain, The very tree shrinks from me in disdain. And yet in lasting memory of thee And of my love, thou shalt be ever mine: In all ovations triumphs and rich shows The Laurel shall engird the Conqueror's brows. All eminence shall think it graced in thee. Poets, the Muse's darlings, shall from thee Receive their honour, and the best esteemed Be crowned Laureate, and no excellence But have it's noble estimate from hence. Emperor's shall prize thy leaves above pure gold: For thou shalt ever wait on victory; And as my youthful and still unshorn hairs (Unchanging) of this golden hue are seen, So shall the boughs and branches still be green, And arm against Jove's lightning. And all these Shall be for our sake by the gods approved, In memory that Daphne we once loved. How comes it, fair Aurora, we the Hours Are thus disturbed? One halts, whilst the other runs; Sometimes made longer by a many minutes, Sometimes not full three quarters? An not I As much distempered, being forced to rise So often before my time? which makes my husband Old Tithon jealous (for he bedrid lies) I have light on some new Love. All's out of order. How comes this strange confusion rise of late? My spring to grow so forward by the Sun? Summer complains that I usurp on her. As much as I on thee, Autumn on me, And says, that in my ripening I include His harvest, and so rob him of his due.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T27 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
See, I am no Satyre, Shepheard, or ſuch as live by grazing herds, Delphos is myne, Pharos, and Tenedos: Thou know'ſt not who thou fly'ſt, I am Apollo, The only god that ſpeakes by Oracle: Iove is my father, and the Muſes nine Are all my daughters: I am Patron held Of Numbers, Raptures, and ſweet Poeſie. My ſhafts are ever certain where they aime, (Yet one more certain, which hath pierc't me deep) Phyſicke is myne, I firſt devis'd that Art, And could it help me, I were then aſſur'd: But Love is by no Simples to be cur'd. O now I am quite ſpent; help, goddeſſe Iuno, (Queene of chaſte marriage) bright Diana, help One of thy true vow'd Virgins: change my ſhape, That I this hot adulterous Sun may ſcape. Thanks, ô ye Powers divine: the Spheres aſſent To my chaſte prayer: your heavenly dooms are iuſt. Here grow I fixt againſt all powers of luſt. Strange prodigie! Leſſe hope is in her ſtay, Than in her ſpeed: her bodie's round incompaſt With a rough rinde, in which her warm heart beats. Her haire is all grown vpward into boughes, Here milke white fingers and her armes advanc'd To great and leſſer branches: her faire feet But late ſo ſwift, faſt rooted in the earth: And I, whom Love late blinded, now may ſee My Daphne turn'd into a Laurel tree. Her life ſtill ſtruggles in the churliſh barke, And from her lips I feele her breath ſtill flow. One bleſſed kiſſe at parting, but in vain, The very tree ſhrinks from me in diſdain. And yet in laſting memory of thee And of my love, thou ſhalt be ever myne: In all ovatious triumphs and rich ſhewes The Laurel ſhall ingirt the Conquerors browes. All eminence ſhall thinke it grac'd in thee. Poets, the Muſes darlings, ſhall from thee Receive their honor, and the beſt eſteem'd Be crowned Laureat, and no excellence But have it's noble eſtimate from hence. Emperors ſhall priſe thy leaves above pure gold: For thou ſhalt ever wait on victorie; And as my youthfull and ſtill unſhorne haires (Vnchanging) of this golden hew are ſeen, So ſhall the boughes and branches ſtill be greene, And arme againſt Ioves lightning. And all theſe Shall be for our ſake by the gods approv'd, In memory that Daphne we once lov'd. How comes it, faire Aurora, we the Houres Are thus diſturb'd? One halts, whileſt th' other runs; Somtimes made longer by a many minutes, Somtimes not full three quarters? Am not I As much diſtemper'd, being forc'd to riſe So oft before my time? which makes my husband Old Tython jealous (for he bed-rid lies) I have light on ſome new Love. All's out of order. How comes this ſtrange confuſion riſe of late? My ſpring to grow ſo forward by the Sun? Summer complaines that I uſurpe on her. As much as I on thee, Autumne on me, And ſaith, that in my ripening I include His harveſt, and ſo rob him of his due.