Cowley, Abraham · published 1638 · first performed or written 1633 [c.1633-1636] (Annals) pastoral unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 523 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
Mad feet, ye have been traitors to your Master: Where have you lead me? sure my truant mind Hath taught my body thus to wander too; Faintness and fear surprise me; Ye just gods, If ye have brought me to this place to scourge The folly of my love, (I might say madness) Dispatch me quickly; send some pitying men Or cruel beast to find me; let me be Fed by the one, or let me feed the other. Why are these trees so brave? why do they wear Such green and fresh apparel? how they smile! How their proud tops play with the courting wind! Can they behold me pine and languish here, And yet not sympathize at all in mourning? Do they upbraid my sorrows? can it be That these thick branches never seen before But by the Sun, should learn so much of man? The trees in Courtiers gardens, which are conscious Of their guilt Masters stateliness and pride, Themselves would pity me; yet these— Who's there? Rise up thou mournful Swain, For 'tis but a folly To be melancholy And get thee thy pipe again. Come sing away the day, For 'tis but a folly To be melancholy, Let's live here whilst we may. I marry Sir, this fellow hath some fire in him, methinks a sad and drowsy shepherd is A prodigy in Nature, for the woods Should be as far from sorrow, as they are From sorrow's causes, riches and the like. Haile to you swain, I am a Gentleman Driven here by ignorance of the way, and would Confess myself bound to you for a courtesy, If you would please to help me to some lodging Where I may rest myself. For 'tis but a folly, &c. Well; if the rest be like this fellow here; Then I have traveled fairly now; for certainly This is a land of fools; some Colony Of elder brothers have been planted here, And begot this fair generation. Prithee, good Shepherd, tell me where thou dwellest? For 'tis but a folly, &c. Why art thou mad? What if I be? I hope 'tis no discredit for me Sir? For in this age who is not? I'll prove it to you, Your Citizen he's mad to trust the Gentleman Both with his wares and wife. Your Courtier he's mad to spend his time in studying postures, Cringes, and fashions, and new compliments; Your Lawyer he's mad to sell away His tongue for money, and his Client madder To buy it of him, since 'tis of no use But to undo men, and the Latin tongue; Your Scholars they are mad to break their brains, Outwatch the Moon, and look more pale than she, That so when all the Arts call him their Master, He may perhaps get some small Vicarage, Or be the Usher of a School; but there's A thing in black called Poet, who is ten Degrees in madness above these; his means Is what the gentle Fates please to allow him By the death or marriage of some mighty Lord, Which he must solemnize with a new song.
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)
MAdde feet, yee have beene traytours to your Master: Where have you lead me? sure my truant mind Hath taught my body thus to wander too; Faintnesse and feare surprize me; Yee just gods, If yee have brought me to this place to scourge The folly of my love, (I might say madnesse) Dispatch me quickly; send some pittying men Or cruell beast to find me; let me bee Fed by the one, or let mee feed the other. Why are these trees so brave? why doe they weare Such greene and fresh apparell? how they smile! How their proud toppes play with the courting wind! Can they behold me pine and languish here, And yet not sympathize at all in mourning? Doe they upbraid my sorrowes? can it bee That these thick branches never seene before But by the Sunne, should learne so much of man? The trees in Courtiers gardens, which are conscious Of their guilt Masters statelinesse and pride, Themselves would pitty me; yet these— Who's there? Rise up thou mournfull Swaine, For 'tis but a folly To be melancholy And get thee thy pipe againe. Come sing away the day, For 'tis but a folly To be melancholly, Let's live here whilst wee may. I marry Sir, this fellow hath some fire in him, Me thinkes a sad and drowsie shepheard is A prodigiein Nature, for the woods Should bee as farre from sorrow, as they are From sorrowes causes, riches and the like. Haile to you swaine, I am a Gentleman Driven here by ignorance of the way, and would Confesse my selfe bound to you for a curtesie, If you would please to helpe me to some lodging Where I may rest my selfe. For 'tis but a folly, &c. Well; if the rest bee like this fellow here; Then I have travel'd fairely now; for certainly This is a land of fooles; some Colonie Of elder brothers have beene planted here, And begot this faire generation. Prithee, good Shepheard, tell mee where thou dwelst? For 'tis but a folly, &c. Why art thou madde? What if I bee? I hope 'tis no discredit for me Sir? For in this age who is not? I'le prove it to you, Your Citizen hee's madde to trust the Gentleman Both with his wares and wife. Your Courtier Hee's madde to spend his time in studying postures, Cringes, and fashions, and new complements; Your Lawyer hee's madde to sell away His tongue for money, and his Client madder To buy it of him, since 'tis of no use But to undoe men, and the Latine tongue; Your Schollers they are madde to breake their braines, Out-watch the Moone, and looke more pale then shee, That so when all the Arts call him their Master, Hee may perhaps get some small Vicaridge, Or be the Vsher of a Schoole; but there's A thing in blacke called Poet, who is ten Degrees in madnesse above these; his meanes Is what the gentle Fates please to allow him By the death or mariage of some mighty Lord, Which hee must solemnize with a new song.