The Most Virtuous and Godly Susanna · chunk 1 of 29
Garter, Thomas · published 1578 · first performed or written 1569 [1563-1569] (Annals) moral unassigned nearest T5 Christian faith, sin and salvation · 496 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T5: god, christ, david, sin, holy, israel, lord, mercy, sins, faith.
BOnum opus laudabila, which is as much to say, Good works though plain are worthy praise, and so have been always. Then though with Bullus Tully style, our Author do not frame, This his first work which you shall hear, yet do accept the same, For why the Story being good, the matter also true, Doth but declare a matter old, as it were done anew. And showeth forth how prone God is, to help such as are just, And in that God before all men, do put assured trust, Of Susan's life the story is, what trouble she was in, How narrowly she scaped death because she would not sin, How wondrously she was provoked, how virtuously she fled, The strong assaults of wicked men, that lecherous lusts had led, To ravish her, and to pollute, her chaste and wifely view, This is the some of all that shall be showed unto you, And though perchance some wanton word, do pass which may not seem Or gestures light not meet for this, your wisdoms may it deem, Account that nought delights the heart of men on earth, So much as matters grave and sad, if they be mixed with mirth, Of both which here I trust you shall, as in a mirror see, And that in such a decent sort as hurtful shall not be, And for because ensample good, is meet in these our days, This hath he done to shorten time, to God give all the praise. Thus craving quiet silence now, my speech I mean to spare, Behold when Sathan enters place, his mind he will declare. Among the plagues of thee O God, Wherewith thou plague man, Plague such as I would have thee plague, Or let me if I can. I wallow now in worldly wealth, And have the world at will, Into each heart I creep by stealth, Of blood I have my fill. But yet there is a wight, In thee O Babylon, Whose flesh or fleece if I may get, How well were I begone, To seek her out myself, Or to attempt her grace, I might perchance have had my prey, So eugly is my face. Well, well, I have a crafty child, His name is Ill Report, A blessed Babe that I have trained, To talk in such a sort. That were she never so just or true, Or liver never so chaste, By hook, or crook, by trace or pace, He brings her home at last. What Evil Report thou crooked Knave, What canst thou not hear thy Dad, Come with a proper pestilence, I think the thief be mad. What quoth he, now by this day, I think thee mad to be, How say you all, within this Hall, What Knave more crooked than he, Why you shitten slave, you crooked nose knave, What are thy wits now past, What moved thee with Ill Report, To call in such a haste. O Son.
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)
BOnum opus laudabila, which is as much to say, Good workes though playne are worthy prayse, and so haue bene alway. Then though with Bullus Tully style, our Authour doe not frame, This his fyrst worke which you shall heare, yet do accept the same, For why the Story being good, the matter also true, Doth but declare a matter olde, as it were done anew. And sheweth forth how prone God is, to helpe such as are iust, And in that God before all men, doe put assured trust, Of Susans lyfe the story is, what trouble she was in, How narrowly she scaped death because she would not sinne, How wonderously she was prouokte, how vertuously she fled, The strong assaultes of wicked men, that lecherous lustes had led, To rauish her, and to pollute, her chaste and wyfely view, This is the somme of all that shall be shewed vnto you, And though perchaunce some wanton worde, doe passe which may not séeme Or gestures light not méete for this, your wisedomes may it déeme, Accoumpt that nought delightes the hart of men on earth, So much as matters graue and sad, if they be mixt with myrth, Of both which here I trust you shall, as in a myrrour sée, And that in such a decent sort as hurtfull shall not be, And for because ensample good, is méete in these our dayes, This hath he done to shorten tyme, to God giue all the prayse. Thus crauing quyet sylence now, my spéeche I meane to spare, Beholde when Sathan enters place, his mynde he will declare. ¶Among the plagues of thée O God, Wherewith thou plaguest man, Plague such as I would haue thée plague, Or let me if I can. I wallow now in worldly welth, And haue the world at will, Into eche hart I créepe by stealth, Of blood I haue my fill. But yet there is a wight, In thée O Babilon, Whose flesh or fleece if I may get, How well were I begon, To seeke her out my selfe, Or to attempt her grace, I might perchaunce haue had my pray, So eugly is my face. Well, well, I haue a crafty chylde, His name is Ill Reporte, A blessed Babe that I haue traynde, To talke in such a sorte. That were she neuer so iust or true, Or liuer neuer so chast, By hooke, or crooke, by trace or pace, He bringes her home at last. ¶What Euill Report thou crooked Knaue, What canst thou not heare thy Dad, Come with a proper pestilence, I thinke the théefe be mad. ¶What quoth hée, now by this day, I thinke thée mad to be, How say you all, within this Hall, What Knaue more crookte then he, Why you shitten slaue, you crookte nose knaue, What are thy wittes now past, What mooued thée with Ill Reporte, To call in such a haste. ¶O Sonne.