Dekker, Thomas · published 1600 · first performed or written 1599 [Nov 9-30, payment] (Annals) romance · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men · before the Court T19 Virtue, Fortune and Vice as abstractions typicality 0.79 · 520 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T19: virtue, fortune, virtues, honour, fame, vice, envy, world, pride, great.
Most powerful Queen of chance dread sovereigness. No more: curse on: your cries to me are Music, And fill the sacred roundure of mine ears, With tunes more sweet than moving of the Spheres: Curse on: on our celestial brows do sit Un numbered smiles, which then leaps from their throne, When they see Peasants dance and monarchs groan. Behold you not this Globe, this golden bowl, This toy called world at our Imperial feet? This world is Fortune's ball wherewith she sports. Sometimes I strike it up into the air, And then create I Emperors and kings: Sometimes I spurn it: at which spurn crawls out That wild beast multitude: curse on you fools, 'tis I that tumble Princes from their thrones, And gild false brows with glittering diadems, 'tis I that tread on necks of conquerors, And when like Semigods they have been drawn, In ivory Chariots to the capitol, Circled about with wonder of all eyes, The shouts of every tongue, love of all hearts, Being swollen with their own greatness, I have pricked The bladder of their pride, and made them die, As water bubbles (without memory) I thrust base cowards into honour's chair, Whilst the true spirited Soldier stands by Bare headed, and all bare, whilst, at his scars They scoff, that near durst view the face of wars. I set an idiot's cap on virtues head, Turn learning out of doors, clothe wit in rags, And paint ten thousand Images of Leame, In gaudy silken colours: on the backs Of Mules and Asses I make asses ride, Only for sport, to see the Apish world Worship such beasts with sound idolatry. This Fortune does, and when this is done, She sits and smiles to hear some curse her name, And some with adoration crown her fame. True centre of this wide circumference, Sacred commandress of the destinies, Our tongues shall only sound thy excellence. Thy excellence our tongues shall only sound. Thou painted strumpet, that with honeyed smiles, Openest the gates of heaven and criest, Come in, Whose glories being seen, thou with one frown, (In pride) lower then hell tumblest us down. Ever for ever will we ban thy name. How sweet your howlings relish in mine ears? Stand by; now rise, behold, here lies a wretch, To vex your souls, this beggar i'll advance Beyond the sway of thought, take instruments, And let the raptures of choice Harmony, Through the hollow windings of his ear, Carry their sacred sounds, & wake each sense, To stand amazed at our bright Eminence. Oh, how am I transported? Is this earth? Or blessed Elysium? Fortunatus, rise. Dread Goddess, how should such a wretch as I Be known to such a glorious deity? Oh pardon me: for to this place I come, Lead by my fate, not folly; in this wood With weary sorrow have I wandered, And three times seen the sweating Sun take rest, And three times frantic Cynthia naked ride, About the rusty highways of the skies Stuck full of burning Stars, which lent her light To Court her Negro paramour grim night.
seed 43: T13 · seed 44: T16 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Most powr'full Quéene of chaunce dread soueraignnesse. No more▪ curse on: your cries to me are Musicke, And fill the sacred roundure of mine eares, With tunes more swéete then mouing of the Spheres: Curse on: on our celestiall browes doe sit Un numbred , which then leaps from their throne, When they sée Peasants daunce and Monarches groane. Behold you not this Globe, this golden bowle, This toy cal'd worlde at our Imperiall féete? This world is Fortunes ball wherewith she sports. Sometimes I strike it vp into the ayre, And then create I Emperours and kings: Sometimes I spurne it: at which spurne crawles out That wild beast multitude: curse on you fooles, Tis I that tumble Princes from their thrones, And gild false browes with glittering diadems, Tis I that tread on neckes of Conquerours, And when like Semi-gods they haue béene drawne, In Iuorie Charriots to the capitoll, Circled about with wonder of all eyes, The shouts of euery tongue, loue of all hearts, Being swolne wit their own greatnesse, I haue prickt The bladder of their pride, and made them die, As water bubbles (without memorie) I thrust base cowards into Honours chaire, Whilst the true spirited Souldiour stands by Bare headed, and all bare, whilst, at his skarres They skoffe, that nere durst view the face of warres. I set an Idéots cap on vertues head, Turne learning out of doores, clothe wit in ragges, And paint ten thousand Images of Leame, In gawdie silken colours▪ on the backes Of Mules and Asses I make asses ride, Onely for sport, to see the Apish world Worship such beasts with sound idolatrie. This Fortune does, and when this is done, She sits and smiles to heare some curse her name, And some with adoration crowne her fame. True center of this wide circumference, Sacred commaundresse of the destinies, Our tongues shall onely sownd thy excellence. Thy excellence our tongues shall onely sound. Thou painted strumpet, that with honied smiles, Openest the gates of heauen and criest, Come in, Whose glories being séene, thou with one frowne, (In pride) lower then hell tumblest vs downe. Euer for euer wil we banne thy name. How swéete your howlings rellish in mine eares? Stand by; now rise, behold, here lies a wretch, To vex your soules, this begger ile aduaunce Beyond the sway of thought, take instruments, And let the raptures of choice Harmonie, Through the hollow windings of his eare, Carrie their sacred sounds, & wake each sence, To stand amaz'd at our bright Eminence. Oh, how am I transported? Is this earth? Or blest Elizium? Fortunatus, rise. Dread Goddesse, how should such a wretch as I Be knowne to such a glorious deitie? Oh pardon me: for to this place I come, Lead by my fate, not folly; in this wood With wearie sorrow haue I wandered, And thrée times séene the sweating Sun take rest, And thrée times franticke Cynthia naked ride, About the rustie high-waies of the skies Stucke full of burning Starres, which lent her light To Court her Negro paramour grim night.