The Seven Champions of Christendom · chunk 31 of 43
Kirke, John · published 1638 · first performed or written 1635 [1634-1638] (Annals) romance · Red Bull Company (second) · Red Bull unassigned nearest T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil · 502 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
Brother, where's Ormand? Dead! Oh I am lost, for ever lost and gone, For ever bearing Knightly Arms again: oh, oh— Brave Britain Knight with patience hear, I'll tell o'er your own Story. Say on my Oracle, I will attend. This Sword you see is mine, enchantments done, You wakened from death's sleep, think it not strange, Ormand did declare before his death, Your Oaths adventure for to fetch his head: By the Tartarian King, your Oath shall be performed, we'll take it off; these harmless men That hither fled, only to save their lives, Shall you get favoured of their King again; I'll bear you company unto the King, Where we again must part: you shall be further satisfied In all what appears dark, I'll open as we ride. Come brother David, we the world that range, Must not admire at accidents or change. Come dear Leonides, My love's sole minion, That like the powerful ruler of the Fates, Turns my restless Necromantic charms Into what form best fits thy appetite: Speak my Leonides, prithee smile, and speak it, Could Earth or Hell invent a guard To shield black crimes from direful punishment? Walls are by Wars strong Engines razed and torn, And Center-reaching caverns of the earth, Have oft been made the inhabitants sad graves: But to build thee a stronger Barracado, I have fetched force from underneath the Poles, The slimy mists of dark Avernus' Lake, Cocytus pitchy steams are mixed with that, And black compounded smoke the Cyclops send From the foul sulphur of hot Aetna's Forge, All which I have compounded in a lump, To make this Isle obscure and tenebrous. I'll tell thee friend, those furious Giants that did war with heaven, Had they effected their great enterprise, Could not more glory in their usurpation, Than I do in this Masterpiece of Art. True great Argalio, Yet here I live as a reprieved prisoner, In hope of life, sure of imprisonment, Losing the benefit of life's repast. In what? In the grand loss of the all-pleasing light, Without the which life is a misery too hard to be inflicted. Wrong not thy judgement with that fond opinion, Night, why 'tis the proper sphere, the Orb of pleasure; When do those heirs of pleasure, Cupid's Lords, The active Courtiers and attractive Dames, Choose to express their quintessence of mirth In sports and revels, is't not in the Night? Night and the pleasures that she brings with her, Shall make thee scorn day, as unnecessary: My several spirits in an active dance Shall now present themselves. Why are these terrors mixed with our delights? The angry heavens with common destiny, Thunder, Reprove my sports. As they'd oppose my sins: See, see where those poor souls, Their murdering hands pulled from the mortal Motion of their flesh, come back to give The Ferryman his hire, I am behind hand in that Fatal debt: but now in spite of his black churlish Oar, we'll waft ourselves unto the hoped shore.
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)
Brother, where's Ormand? Dead! Oh I am loſt, for ever loſt and gone, For ever bearing Knightly Armes agen: oh, oh— Brave Brittain Knight with patience heare, Ile tell o're your owne Story. Say on my Oracle, I will attend. This Sword you ſee is mine, inchantments done, You waken'd from deaths ſleepe, think it not ſtrange, Ormand did declare before his death, Your Oaths adventure for to fetch his head: By the Tartarian King, your Oath ſhall be perform'd, Wee'le take it off; theſe harmeleſſe men That hither fled, onely to ſave their lives, Shall you get favour'd of their King agen; Ile beare you company unto the King, Where we agen muſt part: you ſhall be further ſatisfi'd In all what appeares darke, Ile open as we ride. Come brother David, we the world that range, Muſt not admire at accidents or change. Come deare Leonides, My loves ſole minion, That like the powerfull ruler of the Fates, Turnes my reſtleſſe Negrmantick charmes Into what forme beſt fitts thy apperite: Speake my Leonides, prithee ſmile, and ſpeake it, Could Earth or Hell invent a guard To ſhield black crimes from direfull puniſhment? Walls are by Warres ſtrong Engins raz'd and torne, And Center-reaching cavernes of the earth, Have oft bin made the inhabitants ſad graves: But to build thee a ſtronger Barracado, I have fetcht force from underneath the Poles, The ſlimy miſts of darke Avernus Lake, Cocitus pitchy ſteems are mixt with that, And black compounded ſmoake the Cyclops ſend From the foule ſulpher of hot Aetna's Forge, All which I have compounded in a lumpe, To make this Iſle obſcure and tenebrous. I'le tell thee friend, thoſe furious Gyants that did warre with heaven, Had they effected their great enterpriſe, Could not more glory in their uſurpation, Than I doe in this Maſter-piece of Art. True great Argalio, Yet here I live as a repriev'd priſoner, In hope of life, ſure of impriſonment, Loſing the benefit of lifes repaſt. In what? In the grand loſſe of the all-pleaſing light, Without the which life is a miſery too hard to be inflicted. Wrong not thy judgment with that fond opinion, Night, why 'tis the proper ſpheare, the Orbe of pleaſure; When doe thoſe heires of pleaſure, Cupids Lords, The active Courtiers and attractive Dames, Chooſe to expreſſe their quinteſſence of mirth In ſports and revells, is't not in the Night? Night and the pleaſures that ſhe brings with her, Shall make thee ſcorne day, as unneceſſary: My ſeveral ſpirits in an active dance Shall now preſent themſelves. Why are theſe terrours mixt with our delights? The angry heavens with common deſtiny, Thunder, Reprove my ſports. As they'd oppoſe my ſinnes: See, ſee where thoſe poore ſoules, Their murthering hands puld from the mortall Motion of their fleſh, come backe to give The Ferry-man his hire, I am behinde hand in that Fatall debt: but now in ſpight of his blacke churliſh Oare, Wee'le waft ourſelves unto the hoped ſhoare.