Heywood, Thomas · published 1637 · first performed or written 1635 (Annals) classical legend or myth unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 517 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
Have I not cause? when thou not only claimest The honour of my crop: But frozen Winter, He keeps a coil too, swearing, I intrude Into his bounded limits. This I an sure I an curtailed of my right; my snow is melted, And hath not time to cloth the mountain tops: September is like May, Ianuary as Iune: And all my bright and precious Icicles Melting to nothing: What's the reason trow we? 'Tis the Sun's slackness, or his too much speed, That breeds all this distraction. The Sun, say you? Break he, or not directly keep his day, Seasons and Hours all out of order stray. Behold her whom you speak of, Day, whence come you? I parted now with Night, who had been here, But that both must not in one place appear. And what says she? Like you, rails on the Sun, And says he doth her wrong: nor blame her, when Being full twelve hours, he scarce affords her ten. Day, you are the Sun's mistress, hath he not Revealed the cause to you? Not, his known brightness Hath unto me been only dark in that. Nor an I of his counsel. Fine world grown, When every drunken Sexton hath the skill To make his giddy clock go truer far Than can the best Sun dial. What are you That murmur thus against our Deity? Are you not all our creatures? though we give you Full sails on earth, do not we steer the helm? Disposing you both where and how we please; And dare you thus rebel? The god of Light Is our great Lord and Sovereign. This submission Hath somewhat calmed us: had you still stood out, Disorder, we had to Confusion turned, And so you all been ruined. But henceforth Morning shall keep her hour, Hours measure day, In a true scope the Day proportion Weeks, Weeks, Months; Months, seasons; to sum up the year. And we our course in that, perfecting time: That nothing in this concordance appear Either preposterous or unseasonable. For which our grace, wherever you shall find This new sprung Laurel, you Aurora I charge, With your moist tears bathe her green tender boughs: From whence I will exhale them with my beams. Hours, do you wait upon her gentle growth. Day comfort her: Ver cheer her with thy spring. Thou Summer give her warmth: and Autumn, thou Dare not to spoil her of her plenteous leaves: Nor Winter thou with thy robustuous gusts, To blait her lasting verdure. These observed, Still flourish under us. And that this unity May last among you many fortunate years, End in a Hymn tuned to the chiming Spheres. HOwsoe're the Minutes go, Run the hours or swift or slow: Seem the Months or short or long, Pass the seasons right or wrong: All we sing that Phoebus follow, Semel in anno ridet Apollo. Early fall the Spring or not, Prove the Summer cold or hot: Autumn be it fair or foul, Let the Winter smile or scowl: Still we sing, that Phoebus follow, Semel in anno ridet Apollo.
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)
Have I not cauſe? when thou not only claimſt The honor of my crop: But frozen Winter, Hee keeps a coile too, ſwearing, I intrude Into his bounded limits. This I am ſure I am curtaild of my right; my ſnow is melted, And hath not time to cloath the mountain tops: September is like May, Ianuary as Iune: And all my bright and pretious Iſicles Melting to nothing: What's the reaſon trow we? 'Tis the Suns ſlackneſſe, or his too much ſpeed, That breeds all this diſtraction. The Sun, ſay you? Breake he, or not directly keepe his day, Seaſons and Houres all out of order ſtray. Behold her whom you ſpeak of, Day, whence come ye? I parted now with Night, who had bin here, But that both muſt not in one place appeare. And what ſaith ſhe? Like you, railes on the Sun, And ſaith he doth her wrong: nor blame her, when Being full twelve houres, he ſcarce affords her ten. Day, you are the Suns miſtreſſe, hath he not Reveald the cauſe to you? No, his known brightneſſe Hath unto me been only darke in that. Nor am I of his counſell. Fine world grown, When every drunken Sexton hath the skill To make his giddy clocke go truer far Than can the beſt Sun dyall. What are you That murmure thus againſt our Deitie? Are you not all our creatures? though we give you Full ſailes on earth, do not we ſteere the helme? Diſpoſing you both where and how we pleaſe; And dare you thus rebell? The god of Light Is our great Lord and Soveraigne. This ſubmiſſion Hath ſomewhat calm'd us: had you ſtill ſtood out, Diſorder, we had to Confuſion turn'd, And ſo you all been ruin'd. But henceforth Morning ſhall keep her houre, Houres meaſure day, In a true ſcope the Day proportion Weekes, Weekes, Moneths; Moneths, ſeaſons; to ſum up the yeare. And wee our courſe in that, perfecting time: That nothing in this concordance appeare Either prepoſterous or vnſeaſonable. For which our grace, where-ever you ſhall finde This new ſprung Laurel, you Aurora I charge, With your moiſt teares bathe her green tender boughes: From whence I will exhale them with my beams. Houres, do you wait vpon her gentle growth. Day comfort her: Ver cheere her with thy ſpring. Thou Summer give her warmth: and Autumne, thou Dare not to ſpoile her of her plenteous leaves: Nor Winter thou with thy robuſtuous guſts, To blait her laſting verdure. Theſe obſerv'd, Still flouriſh under us. And that this unitie May laſt amongſt you many fortunate yeres, End in a Hymne tun'd to the chiming Spheres. HOwſoe're the Minutes go, Run the houres or ſwift or ſlow: Seem the Months or ſhort or long, Paſſe the ſeaſons right or wrong: All we ſing that Phoebus follow, Semel in anno ridet Apollo. Early fall the Spring or not, Prove the Summer cold or hot: Autumne be it faire or foule, Let the Winter ſmile or skowle: Still we ſing, that Phoebus follow, Semel in anno ridet Apollo.