Anonymous · published 1600 · first performed or written 1600 [1599-1600] (Annals) pastoral; romance · Children of Paul's (second) T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses typicality 0.81 · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
Fine shifts to colour that you cannot hide, No Phoebus, by your looks may be descried Some hid conceit that harbours in your thought, Which hath therein, some strange impression wrought: That by the course thereof, you seem to me, another man than you were wont to be. No Ladies, you deceive yourselves in me: What likelihood or token do ye see, That may persuade it true that you suppose? Apollo, hence a great suspicion grows, Year not so pleasant now, as erst in company, Ye walk alone, and wander solitary. The pleasant toys we did frequent sometime, Are worn away, and grown out of prime. Your Instrument hath lost his silver sound, That rang of late, through all this grovy ground. Your bow wherewith the chase you did frequent, Is closed in case, and long hath been unbent. How differ you from that Apollo now, That whilom sat in shade of Laurel bow, And with the warbling of your ivory Lute, T'allure the Fairies for to dance about. Or from Th'Apollo that with bended bow, Did many a sharp and wounding shaft bestow. A midst the Dragon Pithons scaly wings, And forced his dying blood to spout in springs. Believe me Phoebus, who saw you then and now, Would think there were a wondrous change in you. Alas fair dames, to make my sorrows plain, Would but revive an ancient wound again. Which grating presently upon my mind, Doth leave a scar of former woes behind. Phoebus, if you account us for the same, That tender thee, and love Apollo's name, power forth to us the fountain of your woe, From whence the spring of these your sorrows slow? If we may any way redress your moan, Command our best, harm will we do you none. Good Ladies, though I hope for no relief, I'll show the ground of this my present grief. This time of year, or there about it was, Accursed be the time, ten times alas: When I from Delphos took my journey down, To see the games in noble Sparta Town, There saw I that, wherein I 'gan to joy, Amilcar's son a gallant comely boy, Hight (hyacinth) full fifteen years of age, Whom I intended to have made my Page, And bore as great affection to the boy, As ever Ioue, in Ganymede did joy. Among the games, myself put in a pledge, To try my strength in throwing of the sledge, Which poising with my strained arm I threw So far, that it beyond the other slew. My hyacinth, delighting in the game, Desired to prove his manhood in the same: And catching ere the sledge lay still on ground, With violent force, aloft it did rebound Against his head, and battered out his brain: And so alas, my lovely boy was slain. Hard hap O Phoebus, but sith it's past & gone, We wish ye to forbear this frustrate moan.
seed 43: T29 · seed 44: T27 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Fine ſhifts to colour that you cannot hide, No Phoebus, by your lookes may be diſcride Some hid conceit that harbors in your thought, Which hath therein, ſome ſtraunge impreſſion wrought: That by the courſe thereof, you ſeeme to mee, An other man then you were wont to bee. No Ladies, you deceiue your ſelues in mee: What likelihood or token do ye ſee, That may perſwade it true that you ſuppoſe? Appollo, hence a great ſuſpition growes, Yeare not ſo pleaſaunt now, as earſt in companie, Ye walke alone, and wander ſolitarie. The pleaſaunt toyes we did frequent ſometime, Are worne away, and growne out of prime. Your Inſtrument hath loſt his ſiluer ſound, That rang of late, through all this grouie ground. Your bowe wherwith the chace you did frequent, Is cloſde in caſe, and long hath bene vnbent. How differ you from that Appollo now, That whilom ſat in ſhade of Lawrell bowe, And with the warbling of your Iuorie Lute, T'alure the Fairies for to daunce about. Or from Th'appollo that with bended bowe, Did many a ſharp and wounding ſhaft beſtowe. A midſt the Dragon Pithons ſcalie wings, And forc't his dying blood to ſpout in ſprings. Beleeue me Phebus, who ſawe you then and now, Would thinke there were a wondrous change in you. Alas faire dames, to make my ſorows plain, Would but reuiue an auncient wound again. Which grating preſently vpon my minde, Doth leaue a ſcar of former woes behinde. Phoebus, if you account vs for the ſame, That tender thee, and loue Appollos name, Powre forth to vs the fountaine of your woe, Frō whence the ſpring of theſe your ſorows ſlowe? If we may any way redreſſe your mone, Commaund our beſt, harme will we do you none. Good Ladies, though I hope for no reliefe, Ile ſhewe the ground of this my preſent griefe. This time of yeare, or there about it was, Accurſed be the time, tenne times alas: When I from Delphos tooke my iourney downe, To ſee the games in noble Sparta Towne, There ſaw I that, wherein I gan to ioy, Amilchars ſonne a gallant comely boy, Hight (Hiacinth) full fifteene yeares of age, Whom I intended to haue made my Page, And bare as great affection to the boy, As euer Ioue, in Ganimede did ioy. Among the games, my ſelfe put in a pledge, To trie my ſtrength in throwing of the ſledge, Which poyſing with my ſtrained arme I threw So farre, that it beyond the other ſlew. My Hiacinth, delighting in the game, Deſierd to proue his manhood in the ſame: And catching ere the ſledge lay ſtill on ground, With violent force, aloft it did rebound Againſt his head, and battered out his braine: And ſo alas, my louely boy was ſlaine. Hard hap O Phoebus, but ſieth it's paſt & gone, We wiſh ye to forbeare this fruſtrate mone.