Jonson, Ben · published 1640 · first performed or written 1637 [1595-1637] (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T25 Kings, power and law: political sententi · 555 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T25: feare, kings, power, princes, lawes, loue, state, downe, honor, men.
THis Rise is made, yet! and we now stand, ranked, To view about us, all that were above us! Naught hinders now our prospect, all are even, We walk upon a Level. Mortimer Is a great Lord of late, and a new thing!— At what a divers price, do divers men Act the same things! Another might have had Perhaps the Hurdle, or at lest the Axe, For what I have this Crownet, Robes, and Wax. There is a Fate, that flies with towering spirits Home to the mark, and never checks at conscience. Poor plodding Priests, and preaching Friars may make Their hollow Pulpits, and the empty Isles Of Church's ring with that round word: But we That draw the subtle, and more piercing air, In that sublimed region of Court, Know all is good, we make so, and go on Secured by the prosperity of our crimes. To day, is Mortimer made Earl of March. For what? For that, the very thinking it Would make a Citizen start! some politic Tradesman Curl with the Caution of a Constable! But I, who am not common Council man, Knew, injuries of that dark nature done Were to be throughly done, and not be left To fear of a revenge. theyare light offences Which admit that. The great ones get above it. Man doth not nurse a deadlier piece of folly To his high temper, and brave soul, than that Of fancying goodness, and a seal to live by So differing from man's life. As if with Lions, Bears, Tigers, Wolves, and all those beasts of Prey, He would affect to be a Sheep! Can man Neglect what is, so, to attain what should be, As rather he will call on his own ruin, Than work t' assure his safety? I should think When 'mongst a world of bad, none can be good, (I mean so absolutely good, and perfect, As our religious Confessors would have us) It is enough, we do decline the rumour Of doing monstrous things: And, yet, if those Were of emolument, unto our ends, Even of those, the wiseman will make friends For all the brand, and safely do the ill, As Usurers rob, or our Physicians kill. My Lord! sweet Mortimer! My Q. my Mistress! My Sovereign! nay, my Goddess! and my Juno! What name, or title, as a mark of Power Upon me, should I give you? Isabel, Your Isabel, and you my Mortimer: Which are the marks of Parity, not power And these are titles, best become our love. Can you fall under those? Yes, and be happy. Walk forth, my loved, and gentle Mortimer, And let my longing eyes enjoy their feast, And fill of thee; my faire-shaped, Godlike man: Thou art a banquet unto all my Senses; Thy form doth feast mine eye, thy voice mine ear, Thy breath, my smell, thy every kiss my taste; And softness of thy skin, my very touch: As if I felt it dactile through my blood. I ne'er was reconciled to these robes, This garb of England, till I saw thee in them. Thou makest, they seem not boisterous, nor rude, Like my rough haughty Lords the Engleterre, With whom I have so many years been troubled. But now redeemed, and set at liberty, Queen of yourself, and them.
seed 43: T25 · seed 44: T6 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
THis Riſe is made, yet! and we now ſtand, ranck'd, To view about us, all that were above us! Nought hinders now our proſpect, all are even, We walke upon a Levell. Mortimer Is a great Lord of late, and a new thing! — At what a divers price, doe divers men Act the ſame things! Another might have had Perhaps the Hurdle, or at leaſt the Axe, For what I have this Crownet, Robes, and Waxe. There is a Fate, that flies with towring ſpirits Home to the marke, and never checks at conſcience. Poore plodding Prieſts, and preaching Friars may make Their hollow Pulpits, and the empty Iles Of Churches ring with that round word: But wee That draw the ſubtile, and more piercing ayre, In that ſublimed region of Court, Know all is good, we make ſo, and goe on Secur'd by the proſperity of our crimes. To day, is Mortimer made Earle of March. For what? For that, the very thinking it Would make a Citizen ſtart! ſome politique Tradeſman Curle with the Caution of a Conſtable! But I, who am no common Councell man, Knew, injuries of that darke nature done Were to be throughly done, and not be left To feare of a revenge. They'are light offences Which admit that. The great ones get above it. Man doth not nurſe a deadlier peece of follie To his high temper, and brave ſoule, then that Of fancying goodneſſe, and a ſeale to live by So differing from mans life. As if with Lyons, Beares, Tigers, Wolves, and all thoſe beaſts of Prey, He would affect to be a Sheepe! Can man Neglect what is, ſo, to attaine what ſhould be, As rather he will call on his owne ruine, Then worke t' aſſure his ſafetie? I ſhould thinke When 'mongſt a world of bad, none can be good, (I meane ſo abſolutely good, and perfect, As our religious Confeſſors would have us) It is enough, we doe decline the rumour Of doing monſtrous things: And, yet, if thoſe Were of emolument, unto our ends, Even of thoſe, the wiſeman will make friends For all the brand, and ſafely doe the ill, As Uſurers rob, or our Phyſicians kill. My Lord! ſweet Mortimer! My Q. my Miſtreſſe! My Soveraigne! nay, my Goddeſſe! and my Juno! What name, or title, as a marke of Power Upon me, ſhould I give you? Iſabel, Your Iſabel, and you my Mortimer: Which are the markes of Paritie, not power And theſe are titles, beſt become our love. Can you fall under thoſe? Yes, and be happie. Walke forth, my lov'd, and gentle Mortimer, And let my longing eyes enjoy their feaſt, And fill of thee; my faire-ſhap'd, God-like man: Thou art a banquet unto all my Senſes; Thy forme doth feaſt mine eye, thy voyce mine eare, Thy breath, my ſmell, thy every kiſſe my taſte; And ſoftneſſe of thy skin, my very touch: As if I felt it dactile through my blood. I ne're was reconciled to theſe robes, This garbe of England, till I ſaw thee in them. Thou mak'ſt, they ſeeme not boiſtrous, nor rude, Like my rough haughty Lords de Engle-terre, With whom I have ſo many yeares beene troubled. But now redeem'd, and ſet at libertie, Queene of your ſelfe, and them.