Campaspe (Alexander, Campaspe, and Diogenes) · chunk 15 of 25
Lyly, John · published 1584 · first performed or written c.1583 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Chapel (first) (Oxford's Boys) · before the Court unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 473 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
Aurelius would in one hour colour four faces. I marvel in half an hour he did not four. Why, is it so easy? No, but he doth it so homely. When will you finish Campaspe? Never finish: for always in absolute beauty there is somewhat above art. Why should not I by labour be as cunning as Apelles? God shield you should have cause to be so cunning as Apelles. methinketh four colours are sufficient to shadow any countenance, & so it was in the time of Phydias. Then had men fewer fancies, & women not so many favours. For now, if the hair of her eye brows be black, yet must the hear of her head be yellow: the attire of her head must be different from the habit of her body, else would the picture seem like the blazon of ancient armory, not like the sweet delight of new found amiableness. For as in garden knots diversity of odours make a more sweet savour, or as in music divers strings cause a more delicate consent, so in painting, the more colours, the better counterfeit, observing black for a ground, and the rest for grace. Lend me thy pencil Apelles, I will paint, and thou shalt judge. Here. The coal breaks. You lean too hard. Now it blacks not. You lean too soft. This is awry. Your eye goeth not with your hand. Now it is worse. Your hand goeth not with your mind. Nay, if all be too hard or soft, so many rules and regards, that one's hand one's eye, ones mind must all draw together, I had rather be setting of a battle, then blotting of a board. But how have I done here? Like a king. I think so: but nothing more unlike a Painter. Well Apelles, Campaspe is finished as I wish, dismiss her, & bring presently her counterfeit after me. I will. Now Hephestion, doth not this matter cotton as I would, Campaspe looketh pleasantly, liberty will increase her beauty, and my love shall advance her honour. I will not contrary your majesty, for time must wear out that love hath wrought, and reason wean what appetite nursed. How stately she passeth by, yet how soberly, a sweet consent in her countenance with a chaste disdain, desire mingled with coyness, and I cannot tell how to term it, a cursed yielding modesty. Let her pass. So she shall for the fairest on the earth. I shallbe hanged for tarrying so long. I pray God my master be not flown before I come. Away Manes, my master doth come. Where have you been all this while? nowhere but here. Who was here sithence my coming? nobody. Ungracious wag, I perceive you have been a loitering, was Alexander nobody? He was a king, I meant no mean body.
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)
Aurelius would in one houre colour foure faces. I meruaile in half an houre he did not foure. Why, is it so easie? No, but he doth it so homely. When wil you finish Campaspe? Neuer finishe: for alwaies in absolute bewtie there is somwhat aboue arte. Why shoulde not I by labour bee as cunning as Apelles? God shield you should haue cause to be so cunning as Apelles. Me thinketh four colours are sufficiēt to shadow any countenance, & so it was in the time of Phyias. Then had men fewer fancies, & womē not so many fauors. For now, if the haire of her eie browes be black, yet must the heare of her head be yellowe: the attire of her head must be different from the habite of her body, els would the picture seeme like the blason of auncient Armorie, not like the sweete delight of new found amiablenes. For as in garden knottes diuersitie of odours make a more sweete sauour, or as in musicke diuers stringes cause a more delicate consent, so in painting, the more colours, the better counterfeit, obseruing blacke for a ground, and the rest for grace. Lend me thy pensil Apelles, I wil paint, and thou shalt iudge. Here. The coale breakes. You leane too hard. Now it blackes not. You leane too soft. This is awry. Your eie goeth not with your hand. Now it is worse. Your hand goeth not with your minde. Nay, if all be too hard or soft, so many rules and regardes, that ones hand ones eie, ones mind muste all draw together, I had rather be setting of a battell, then blotting of a bourd. But how haue I done here? Like a king. I think so: but nothing more vnlike a Paynter. Wel Apelles, Campaspe is finished as I wish, dismisse her, & bring presently her counterfeit after me. I wil. Now Hephestion, doth not this matter cotton as I would, Campaspe looketh pleasantly, liberty wil encrease her bewtie, and my loue shal aduaunce her honour. I wil not contrary your maiestie, for time must weare out that loue hath wroughte, and reason weane what appetite noursed. How stately she passeth bye, yet howe soberlie, a sweete consent in her countenance with a chast disdain, desire mingled with coynesse, and I cannot tell howe to tearme it, a curst yeelding modestie. Let her passe. So shee shall for the fairest on the earth. I shalbe hanged for tarying so long. I pray God my maister bee not flowne before I come. Away Manes, my maister doth come. Where haue you bin all this while? No where but heere. Who was here sithence my comming? No body. Vngratious wag, I perceiue you haue beene a loytering, was Alexander no body? He was a king, I meant no meane body.