Lyly, John · published 1591 · first performed or written 1588 [Feb 2(?)] (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (first) · before the Court unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
O Fair Cynthia, o unfortunate Endymion. Why was not thy birth as high as thy thoughts, or her beauty less than heavenly? or why are not thine honours as rare as her beauty? or thy fortunes as great as thy deserts? Sweet Cynthia, how wouldst thou be pleased, how possessed? will labours (patient of all extremities) obtain thy love? There is no Mountain so steep that I will not climb, no monster so cruel that I will not tame, no action so desperate that I will not attempt. Desirest thou the passions of love, the sad and melancholy moods of perplexed minds, the not to be expressed torments of racked thoughts? Behold my sad tears, my deep sighs, my hollow eyes, my broken sleeps, my heavy countenance. Wouldst thou have me vowed only to thy beauty and consume every minute of time in thy service, remember my solitary life, almost these seven years, whom have I entertained but mine own thoughts, and thy virtues? What company have I used but contemplation? Whom have I wondered at but thee? Nay whom have I not contemned, for thee? Have I not crept to those on whom I might have trodden, only because thou didst shine upon them? Have not injuries been sweet to me, if thou vouchsafest I should bear them? Have I not spent my golden years in hopes, waxing old with wishing, yet wishing nothing but thy love. With Tellus, fair Tellus, have I dissembled, using her but as a cloak for mine affections, that others seeing my mangled and disordered mind, might think it were for one that loveth me, not for Cynthia, whose perfection alloweth no companion, nor comparison. In the midst of these distempered thoughts of mine, thou art not only jealous of my truth, but careless, suspicious, and secure: which strange humour maketh my mind as desperate as thy conceits are doubtful. I am none of those Wolves that bark most, when thou shinest brightest. But that fish, (thy fish Cynthia in the flood Aranis) which at thy waxing is as white as the driven snow, and at thy waning, as black as deepest darkness. I am that Endymion (sweet Cynthia) that have carried my thoughts in equal balance with my actions, being always as free from imagining ill, as enterprising; That Endymion, whose eyes never esteemed any thing fair, but thy face, whose tongue termed nothing rare but thy virtues, and whose heart imagined nothing miraculous, but thy government. Yea that Endymion, who divorcing himself from the amiableness of all Ladies, the bravery of all Courts, the company of all men, hath chosen in a solitary Cell to live, only by feeding on thy favour, accounting in the world (but thyself) nothing excellent, nothing immortal; thus mayst thou see every vain sinew, muscle, and artery of my love, in which there is no flattery, nor deceit; error, nor art. But soft, here cometh Tellus, I must turn my other face to her like Ianus, lest she be as suspicious as Juno.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O Fayre Cynthia, ô vnfortunate Endimion. Why was not thy byrth as high as thy thoughts, or her beautie lesse then heauenlie? or why are not thyne honors as rare as her beautie? or thy fortunes as great as thy deserts? Sweet Cynthia, how wouldst thou be pleased, how possessed? wil labours (patient of all extremities) obtaine thy loue? There is no Mountain so steepe that I will not climbe, no monster so cruell that I will not tame, no action so desperate that I will not attempt. Desirest thou the passions of loue, the sad and melancholie moodes of perplexed mindes, the not to be expressed torments of racked thoughts? Beholde my sad teares, my deepe sighes, my hollowe eyes, my broken sleepes, my heauie countenaunce. Wouldst thou haue mee vowde onelie to thy beautie and consume euerie minute of time in thy seruice, remember my solitarie life, almost these seauen yeeres, whom haue I entertained but mine owne thoughts, and thy vertues? What companie haue I vsed but contemplation? Whom haue I wondred at but thee? Nay whom haue I not contemned, for thee? Haue I not crept to those on whom I might haue troden, onelie because thou didst shine vpon them? Haue not iniuries beene sweet to mee, if thou vouchsafest I should beare them? Haue I not spent my golden yeeres in hopes, waxing old with wishing, yet wishing nothing but thy loue. With Tellus, faire Tellus, haue I dissembled, vsing her but as a cloake for mine affections, that others seeing my mangled and disordered minde, might thinke it were for one that loueth me, not for Cynthia, whose perfection alloweth no companion, nor comparison. In the midst of these distempred thoughts of myne, thou art not onelie iealous of my truth, but careles, suspicious, and secure: which strange humor maketh my minde as desperate as thy conceits are doubtfull. I am none of those Wolues that barke most, when thou shynest brightest. But that fish, (thy fish Cynthia in the floode Aranis) which at thy waxing is as white as the driuen snowe, and at thy wayning, as blacke as deepest darknes. I am that Endimion (sweet Cynthia) that haue carryed my thoughts in equall ballance with my actions, being alwaies as free from imagining ill, as enterprysing; That Endimion, whose eyes neuer esteemed anie thing faire, but thy face, whose tongue termed nothing rare but thy vertues, and whose hart imagined nothing miraculous, but thy gouernment. Yea that Endimion, who diuorsing himselfe from the amiablenes of all Ladies, the brauerie of all Courts, the companie of al men, hath chosen in a solitarie Cell to liue, onely by feeding on thy fauour, accounting in the worlde (but thy selfe) nothing excellent, nothing immortall; thus maist thou see euerie vaine sinew, muscle, and artery of my loue, in which there is no flatterie, nor deceipt; error, nor arte. But soft, here commeth Tellus, I must turne my other face to her like Ianus, least she be as suspicious as Juno.