Satiromastix, or The Untrussing of the Humorous Poet · chunk 4 of 44
Dekker, Thomas · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men and Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
To thee whose forehead swells with Roses, Whose most haunted bower Gives life & sent to every flower, Whose most adored name encloses, Things abstruse, deep and divine, Whose yellow tresses shine, Bright as Eoan fire. O me thy Priest inspire. For I to thee and thine immortal name, in golden tunes, For I to thee and thine immortal name— In sacred raptures flowing, flowing, swimming, swimming: In sacred raptures swimming, Immortal name, game, dame, tame, lame, lame, lame, Pux, hath, shame, proclaim, oh— In Sacred raptures flowing, will proclaim, not— O me thy Priest inspire! For I to thee and thine immortal name, In flowing numbers filled with sprite and flame, Good, good, in flowing numbers filled with sprite & flame. Horace, Horace, my sweet ningle, is always in labour when I come, the nine Muses be his midwives I pray Iupiter: Ningle. In flowing numbers filled with sprite and flame, To thee. To me? I pledge thee sweet Ningle, by Bacchus quaffing bowl, I thought thouadst drunk to me. It must have been in the divine liquor of Parnassus, then in which, I know you would scarce have pledged me, but come sweet rogue, sit, sit, sit. Over head and ears i'faith? I have a sackful of news for thee, thou shalt plague some of them, if God send us life and health together. It's no matter, empty thy sack anon, but come here first honest rogue, come. Is't good, Is't good pure Helicon ha? Damn me if't be not the best that ever came from me, if I have any judgement, look sir, 'tis an Epithalamium for Sir Walter Terrill's wedding, my brains have given assault to it but this morning. Then I hope to see them fly out like gunpowder ere night. Nay good rogue mark, for they are the best lines that ever I drew. here's the best leaf in England, but on, on, I'll but tune this Pipe. Mark, to thee whose forehead swells with Roses. O sweet, but will there be no exceptions taken, because forehead and swelling comes together? Push, away, away, it's proper, besides 'tis an elegancy to say the forehead swells. Nay an't be proper, let it stand for God's love. Whose most haunted bower, Gives life and sent to every flower, Whose most adored name encloses, Things abstruse, deep and divine. Whose yellow tresses shine, Bright as Eoan fire. O pure, rich, there's heat in this, on, on. Bright as Eoan fire, O me thy Priest inspire! For I to thee and thine immortal name— mark this. In flowing numbers filled with sprite and flame. I mary, there's sprite and flame in this. A pox, a this Tobacco. Would this case were my last, if I did not mark, nay all's one, I have always a consort of Pipes about me, mine Ingle is all fire and water; I marked, by this Candle (which is none of God's Angels) I remember, you started back at sprite and flame.
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)
To thee whose fore-head swels with Roses, Whose most haunted bower Giues life & sent to euery flower, Whose most adored name incloses, Things abstruse, deep and diuine, Whose yellow tresses shine, Bright as Eoan fire. O me thy Priest inspire. For I to thee and thine immortall name, In-in-in golden tunes, For I to thee and thine immortall name— In-sacred raptures flowing, flowing, swimming, swimming: In sacred raptures swimming, Immortall name, game, dame, tame, lame, lame, lame, Pux, hath, shame, proclaime, oh— In Sacred raptures flowing, will proclaime, not— O me thy Priest inspyre! For I to thee and thine immortall name, In flowing numbers fild with spright and flame, Good, good, in flowing numbers fild with spright & flame. Horace, Horace, my sweet ningle, is alwayes in labour when I come, the nine Muses be his midwiues I pray Iupiter: Ningle. In flowing numbers fild with sprite and flame, To thee. To me? I pledge thee sweet Ningle, by Bacchus quassing boule, I thought th'adst drunke to me. It must haue been in the deuine lycour of Pernaessus, then in which, I know you would scarce haue pledg'd me, but come sweet roague, sit, sit, sit. Ouer head and eares yaith? I haue a sacke-full of newes for thee, thou shalt plague some of them, if God send vs life and health together. Its no matter, empty thy sacke anon, but come here first honest roague, come. Ist good, Ist good▪ pure Helicon ha? Dam me ift be not the best that euer came from me, if I haue any iudgement, looke sir, tis an Epithalamium for Sir Walter Terrels wedding, my braines haue giuen assault to it but this morning. Then I hope to see them flye out like gun-powder ere night. Nay good roague marke, for they are the best lynes that euer I drew. Heer's the best leafe in England, but on, on, Ile but tune this Pipe. Marke, to thee whose fore-head swels with Roses. O sweet, but will there be no exceptions taken, because fore-head and swelling comes together? Push, away, away, its proper, besides tis an elegancy to say the fore head swels. Nay an't be proper, let it stand for Gods loue. Whose most haunted bower, Giues life and sent to euery flower, Whose most adored name incloses, Things abstruse, deep and diuine. Whose yellow tresses shine, Bright as fire. O pure, rich, ther's heate in this, on, on. Bright as Eoan fire, O me thy Priest inspire! For I to thee and thine immortall name—marke this. In flowing numbers fild with spryte and ame. I mary, ther's spryte and flame in this. A pox, a this Tobacco. Wod this case were my last, if I did not marke, nay all's one, I haue alwayes a consort of Pypes about me, myne Ingle is all fire and water; I markt, by this Candle (which is none of Gods Angels) I remember, you started back at sprite and flame.