Cynthia's Revels, or The Fountain of Self-Love · chunk 7 of 66
Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1600 [1600-1601] (Annals) satire · Children of the Chapel (second) unassigned nearest T12 Olympian gods: Jupiter, Juno, Venus and · 493 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T12: iupiter, saturn, iuno, venus, gods, mars, earth, titan, love, fair.
But will HERMES second me? I am now to put in act, an especial designment from my father JOVE, but that performed, I am for any fresh action that offers itself. Well, than we part. Farewell, good wag. Now, to my charge, echo, fair echo, speak, 'tis MERCVRIE, that calls thee, sorrowful Nymph, Salute me with thy repercussive voice, That I may know what cavern of the earth Contains thy airy spirit, how, or where I may direct my speech, that thou mayst hear. HEre. So nigh? I. Know (gentle soul) then, I am sent from JOVE, Who (pitying the sad burden of thy woes, Still growing on thee, in thy want of words, To vent thy passion for NARCISSUS death) Commands, that now (after three thousand years, Which have been exercised in Juno's spite) Thou take a corporal figure, and ascend, Enriched with vocal, and articulate power. Make haste, sad Nymph, thrice shall my winged rod Strike th'obsequious earth, to give thee way. Arise, and speak thy sorrows, echo, rise, Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine, Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame, Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name. His name revives, and lifts me up from earth. O, which way shall I first convert myself? Or in what mood shall I assay to speak, That (in a moment) I may be delivered Of the prodigious grief I go withal? See, see, the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet, Th' untimely fate of that too beauteous boy, That trophaee of self-love, and spoil of nature, Who (now transformed into this drooping flower) Hangs the repentant head, back from the stream, As if it wished, would I had never looked In such a flattering mirror. O NARCISSUS, Thou that wast once (and yet art) my NARCISSUS; Had echo but been private with thy thoughts, She would have dropped away herself in tears, Till she had all turned water, that in her, (As in a truer glass) thou mightst have gazed, And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection: But self-love never yet could look on truth, But with bleared beams; slick flattery and she Are twin borne sisters, and so mix their eyes, As if you sever one, the other dies. Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form, And earthy thoughts, to make thee proud of it? Why, do I ask? 'tis now the known disease That beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense Of her own self-conceived excellence. O, hadst thou known the worth of heavens rich gift, Thou wouldst have turned it to a truer use, And not (with starved, and covetous ignorance) P'd in continuall eying that bright gem, The glance whereof to others had been more, Than to thy famished mind the wide world's store: So wretched is it to be merely rich. Witness thy youths dear sweets, here spent untasted, Like a fair taper, with his own flame wasted.
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)
But will HERMES second me? I am now to put in act, an especiall designement from my father IOVE, but that perform'd, I am for any fresh action that offers it selfe. Well, then we part. Farewell, good wag. Now, to my charge, ECCHO, faire ECCHO, speake, Tis MERCVRIE, that calls thee, sorrowfull Nymph, Salute me with thy repercussiue voice, That I may know what cauerne of the earth Containes thy ayrie spirit, how, or where I may direct my speech, that thou maist heare. HEre. So nigh? I. Know (gentle soule) then, I am sent from IOVE, Who (pittying the sad burthen of thy woes, Still growing on thee, in thy want of wordes, To vent thy passion for NARCISSVS death) Commands, that now (after three thousand yeeres, Which haue beene exercis'd in IVNOES spight) Thou take a corporall figure, and ascend, Enricht with vocall, and articulate power. Make haste, sad Nymph, thrice shall my winged rod Strike th'obsequious earth, to giue thee way. Arise, and speake thy sorrowes, ECCHO, rise, Here, by this fountayne, where thy loue did pine, Whose memorie liues fresh to vulgar fame, Shrin'd in this yellow flowre, that beares his name. His name reuiues, and lifts me vp from earth. O, which way shall I first conuert my selfe? Or in what moode shall I assay to speake, That (in a moment) I may be deliuered Of the prodigious griefe I goe withall? See, see, the mourning fount, whose springs weepe yet, Th' vntimely fate of that too beauteous boy, That trophaee of selfe-loue, and spoile of nature, Who (now transform'd into this drouping flowre) Hangs the repentant head, back from the streame, As if it wish'd, would I had neuer look'd In such a flattering mirrour. O NARCISSVS, Thou that wast once (and yet art) my NARCISSVS; Had ECCHO but beene priuate with thy thoughts, Shee would haue dropt away her selfe in teares, Till shee had all turn'd water, that in her, (As in a glasse) thou mightst haue gaz'd, And seene thy beauties by more kind reflection: But selfe-loue neuer yet could looke on truth, But with bleard beames; lieke flatterie and shee Are twin borne sisters, and so mixe their eyes, As if you seer one, the other dies. Why did the gods giue thee a heau'nly forme, And earthy thoughts, to make thee proud of it? Why, doe I aske? Tis now the knowne disease That beautie hath, to beare too deepe a sense Of her owne selfe-conceiued excellence. O, hadst thou knowne the worth of heau'ns rich gift, Thou wouldst haue turn'd it to a truer vse, And not (with staru'd, and couetous ignorance) P'd in continuall eying that bright gem, The glance whereof to others had beene more, Then to thy famisht mind the wide worlds store: "So wretched is it to be meerely rich. Witnesse thy youths deare sweets, here spent vntasted, Like a faire taper, with his owne flame wasted.