Marlowe, Christopher · published 1590 · first performed or written 1587 [1587-1588] (Annals) tragedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men unassigned nearest T17 Eastern conquest: Persians, Turks and so · 536 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T17: tamburlaine, persian, cyrus, king, mahomet, arms, mighty, assyrian, thousand, army.
A sight as baneful to their souls I think As are Thessalian drugs or mithridate. But go my Lords, put the rest to the sword. Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an Epithet for thee, That in thy passion for thy country's love, And fear to see thy kingly Father's harm, With hair disheveled wipest thy watery cheeks: And like to Flora in her morning's pride, Shaking her silver tresses in the air. train'st on the earth resolved pearl in showers, And sprinklest sapphires on thy shining face, Where Beauty, mother to the Muses sits, And comments volumes with her Ivory pen: Taking instructions from thy flowing eyes, Eyes when that Ebena steps to heaven. In silence of thy solemn evenings walk. Making the mantle of the richest night. The Moon, the Planets, and the meteor's light, There Angels in their crystal armours fight A doubtful battle with my tempted thoughts, For Egypt's freedom and the soldan's life: His life that so consumes Zenocrate, Whose sorrows lay more siege unto my saule, Than all my Army to Damascus walls. And neither Persians Sovereign, nor the Turk Troubled my senses with conceit of foil, So much by much, as doth zenocrate. What is beauty saith my sufferings then? If all the pens that ever poets held, Had fed the feeling of their masters thoughts, And every sweetness that inspired their hearts, Their minds, and muses on admired themes: If all the heavenly Quintessence they still From their immortal flowers of Poesy, Wherein as in a mirror we perceive The highest reaches of a human wit. If these had made one Poem's period And all combined in Beauty's worthiness, Yet should there hover in their restless heads, One thought, one grace, one wonder at the least, Which into words no virtue can digest: But how unseemly is it for my Sex My discipline of arms and Chivalry, My nature and the terror of my name. To harbour thoughts effeminate and faint? Save only that in/ Beauty's just applause, With whose instinct the soul of man is touched. And every warrior that is rapt with love, Of fame, of valour, and of victory Must needs have beauty beat on his conceits, I thus conceiving and subduing both: That which hath stopped the tempest of the Gods, Even from the fiery spangled vail of heaven, To feel the lovely warmth of shepherds flames, And march in cottages of strowed weeds, Shall give the world to note for all my birth, That Virtue solely is the sum of glory, And fashions men with true nobility. Who's within there? Hath Bajazeth been fed today? ay, my Lord. Bring him forth, & let us know if the town be ransacked. The town is ours my Lord, and fresh supply Of conquest, and of spoil is offered us: That's well techelles, what's the news? The soldan and the Arabian king together March on us with such eager violence, As if there were no way but one with us. No more there is not I warrant thee techelles We know the victory is ours my Lord, But let us save the reverend soldan's life, For fair Zenocrate, that so laments his state.
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)
A sight as banefull to their soules I think As are Thessalian drugs or Mithradate. But goe my Lords, put the rest to the sword. Ah faire Zenocrate, diuine Zenocrate, Faire is too foule an Epithite for thee, That in thy passion for thy countries loue, And feare to see thy kingly Fathers harme, With haire discheweld wip'st thy watery cheeks: And like to Flora in her mornings pride, Shaking her siluer treshes in the aire. Rain'st on the earth resolued pearle in showers, And sprinklest Saphyrs on thy shining face, Wher Beauty, mother to the Muses sits, And comments vollumes with her Yuory pen: Taking instructions from thy flowing eies, Eies when that Ebena steps to heauen. In silence of thy solemn Euenings walk. Making the mantle of the richest night. The Moone, the Planets, and the Meteors light, There Angels in their christal armours fight A doubtfull battell with my tempted thoughtes, For Egypts freedom and the Souldans life: His life that so consumes Zenocrate, Whose sorrowes lay more siege vnto my saule, Than all my Army to Damascus walles. And neither Perseans Soueraign, nor the Turk Troubled my sences with conceit of foile, So much by much, as dooth zenocrate. What is beauty saith my sufferings then? If all the pens that euer poets held, Had fed the feeling of their maisters thoughts, And euery sweetnes that inspir'd their harts, Their minds, and muses on admyred theames: If all the heauenly Quintessence they still From their immortall flowers of Poesy, Wherein as in a myrrour we perceiue The highest reaches of a humaine wit. If these had made one Poems period And all combin'd in Beauties worthinesse, Yet should ther houer in their restlesse heads, One thought, one grace, one woonder at the least, Which into words no vertue can digest: But how vnseemly is it for my Sex My discipline of armes and Chiualrie, My nature and the terrour of my name. To harbour thoughts effeminate and faint? Saue onely that in / Beauties iust applause, With whose instinct the soule of man is toucht. And euery warriour that is rapt with loue, Of fame, of valour, and of victory Must needs haue beauty beat on his conceites, I thus conceiuing and subduing both: That which hath stopt the tempest of the Gods, Euen from the fiery spangled vaile of heauen, To feele the louely warmth of shepheards flames, And martch in cottages of strowed weeds, Shal giue the world to note for all my byrth, That Vertue solely is the sum of glorie, And fashions men with true nobility. Who's within there? Hath Baiazeth bene fed to day? I, my Lord. Bring him forth, & let vs know if the towne be ransackt. The town is ours my Lord, and fresh supply Of conquest, and of spoile is offered vs: Thats wel techelles, what's the newes? The Souldan and the Arabian king together Martch on vs with such eager violence, As if there were no way but one with vs. No more there is not I warrant thee techelles We know the victorie is ours my Lord, But let vs saue the reuerend Souldans life, For faire Zenocrate, that so laments his state.