The Reign of King Edward the Third · chunk 7 of 39
Anonymous / Shakespeare, William · published 1596 · first performed or written 1590 [c.1590-1595] (Annals) history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 530 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Then in the summer arbour sit by me, Make it our counsel house or cabinet: Since green our thoughts, green be the conventicle, Where we will ease us by disburdening them: Now Lodwick invocate some golden Muse, To bring thee hither an enchanted pen, That may for sighs, set down true sighs indeed: Talking of grief, to make thee ready groan, And when thou writest of tears, encouch the word, Before and after with such sweet laments, That it may raise drops in a Torters eye, And make a flint heart Sythian pitiful, For so much moving hath a poet's pen: Then if thou be a Poet move thou so, And be enriched by thy sovereign love: For if the touch of sweet concordant strings, Could force attendance in the ears of hell: How much more shall the strains of poet's wit, Beguiled and ravish soft and human minds. To whom my Lord shall I direct my style. To one that shames the fair and sots the wise, Whose body is an abstract or a brief, Contains each general virtue in the world, Better than beautiful thou must begin, device for fair a fairer word then fair, And every ornament that thou wouldest praise, Fly it a pitch above the soar of praise, For flattery fear thou not to be convicted, For were thy admiration ten times more, Ten times ten thousand more thy worth exceeds, Of that thou art to praise their praises worth, Begin I will to contemplate the while, Forget not to set down how passionate, How heart sick and how full of languishment, Her beauty makes me, Writ I to a woman? What beauty else could triumph on me, Or who but women do our love lays greet, What thinkest thou I did bid thee praise a horse. Of what condition or estate she is, 'twere requisite that I should know my Lord, Of such estate, that hers is as a throne, And my estate the footstool where she treads, Then mayst thou judge what her condition is, By the proportion of her mightiness, Write on while I peruse her in my thoughts, Her voice to music or the nightingale, To music every summer leaping swain, Compares his sunburnt lover when she speaks, And why should I speak of the nightingale, The nightingale sings of adulterate wrong, And that compared is to satirical, For sin though sin would not be so esteemed, But rather virtue sin, sin virtue deemed, Her hair far softer then the silk worms twist, Like to a flattering glass doth make more fair, The yellow Amber like a flattering glass, Comes in to soon: for writing of her eyes, I'll say that like a glass they catch the sun, And thence the hot reflection doth rebound, Against my breast and burns my heart within, Ah what a world of descant makes my soul, Upon this voluntary ground of love, Come Lodwick hast thou turned thy ink to gold, If not, write but in letters Capital my mistress name, And it will guild thy paper, read Lord, read, Fill thou the empty hollows of mine ears, With the sweet hearing of thy poetry.
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)
Then in the ſommer arber ſit by me, Make it our counſel houſe or cabynet: Since greene our thoughts, greene be the conuenticle, Where we will caſe vs by disburdning them: Now Lodwike inuocate ſome golden Muſe, To bring thee hither an inchanted pen, That may for ſighes, ſet downe true ſighes indeed: Talking of griefe, to make thee ready grone, And when thou writeſt of teares, encouch the word, Before and after with ſuch ſweete laments, That it may rayſe drops in a Torterseye, And make a flynt heart Sythian pytifull, For ſo much moouing hath a Poets pen: Then if thou be a Poet moue thou ſo, And be enriched by thy ſoueraigne loue: For if the touch of ſweet concordant ſtrings, Could force attendance in the eares of hel: How much more ſhall the ſtraines of poets wit, Beguild and rauiſh ſoft and humane myndes. To whome my Lord ſhal I direct my ſtile. To one that ſhames the faire and ſots the wiſe, Whoſe bodie is an abſtract or a breefe, Containes ech generall vertue in the worlde, Better then bewtifull thou muſt begin, Deuiſe for faire a fairer word then faire, And euery ornament that thou wouldeſt praiſe, Fly it a pitch aboue the ſoare of praiſe, For flattery feare thou not to be conuicted, For were thy admiration ten tymes more, Ten tymes ten thouſand more thy worth exceeds, Of that thou art to praiſe their praiſes worth, Beginne I will to contemplat the while, Forget not to ſet downe how paſſionat, How hart ſicke and how full of languiſhment, Her beautie makes mee, Writ I to a woman? What bewtie els could triumph on me, Or who but women doe our loue layes greet, What thinekſt thou I did bid thee praiſe a horſe. Of what condicion or eſtate ſhe is, Twere requiſit that I ſhould know my Lord, Of ſuch eſtate, that hers is as a throane, And my eſtate the footſtoole where ſhee treads, Then maiſt thou iudge what her condition is, By the proportion of her mightines, Write on while I peruſe her in my thoughts, Her voice to muſicke or the nightingale, To muſicke euery ſommer leaping ſwaine, Compares his ſunburnt louer when ſhee ſpeakes, And why ſhould I ſpeake of the nightingale, The nightingale ſinges of adulterate wrong, And that compared is to ſatyrical, For ſinne though fynne would not be ſo eſteemd, But rather vertue ſin, ſynne vertue deemd, Her hair far ſoftor then the ſilke wormes twiſt, Like to a flattering glas doth make more faire, The ye low Amber like a flattering glas, Comes in to ſoone: for writing of her eies, Ile ſay that like a glas they catch the ſunne, And thence the hot reflection doth rebounde, Againſt my breſt and burnes my hart within, Ah what a world of deſcant makes my ſoule, Vpon this voluntarie ground of loue, Come Lodwick haſt thou turnd thy inke to golde, If not, write but in letters Capitall my miſtres name, And it wil guild thy paper, read Lorde, reade, Fill thou the emptie hollowes of mine eares, With the ſweete hearing of thy poetrie.