Chapman, George · published 1607 · first performed or written 1607 (Annals) tragedy · Children of Paul's (second) · Paul's unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 482 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
That ever any man was blessed withal; So here's for me. I think you are (at worst) No devil, since you're like to be no king; Of which, with any friend of yours I'll lay This poor stillado here, 'gainst all the stars, ay, and 'gainst all your treacheries, which are more; That you did never good, but to do ill; But ill of all sorts, free and for itself: That (like a murdering piece, making lanes in armies The first man of a rank, the whole rank falling) If you have once wronged one man, you're so far From making him amends, that all his race, Friends and associates fall into your chase: That you're for perjuries the very prince Of all intelligencers; and your voice Is like an Eastern wind, that where it flies, Knits nets of Caterpillars, with which you catch The prime of all the fruits the kingdom yields. That your political head is the cursed fount Of all the violence, rapine, cruelty, Tyranny & Atheism flowing through the realm. That you'ave a tongue so scandalous, 'twill cut A perfect Crystal; and a breath that will Kill to that wall a spider; you will jest With God, and your soul to the devil tender For lust; kiss horror, and with death engender. That your foul body is a Lernaean fen Of all the maladies breeding in all men. That you are utterly without a soul: And (for your life) the thread of that was spun, When Clotho slept, and let her breathing rock Fall in the dirt; and Lachesis still draws it, Dipping her twisting fingers in a bowl Defiled, and crowned with virtues forced soul. And lastly (which I must for Gratitude Ever remember) That of all my height And dearest life, you are the only spring, Only in royal hope to kill the king. Why now I see thou lov'st me, come to the banquet. LAdies, ye have not done our banquet right, Nor looked upon it with those cheerful rays That lately turned your breaths to floods of gold; Your looks, methinks, are not drawn out with thoughts, So clear and free as heretofore, but fare As if the thick complexions of men Governed within them. 'tis not like my Lord That men in women rule; but contrary, For as the Moon (of all things God created) Not only is the most appropriate image Or glass to show them how they wax and wane, But in her light and motion, likewise bears Imperial influences that command In all their powers, and make them wax & wane; So women, that (of all things made of nothing) Are the most perfect images of the Moon (Or still-unweaned sweet Moon-calves with white faces) Not only are patterns of change to men: But as the tender Moonshine of their beauties Clears, or is cloudy, make men glad or sad.
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)
That euer any man was blest withall; So heere's for mee. I thinke you are (at worst) No diuell, since y'are like to be no king; Of which, with any friend of yours Ile lay This poore Stilladoe heere, gainst all the starres, I, and gainst all your treacheries, which are more; That you did neuer good, but to doe ill; But ill of all sorts, free and for it selfe: That (like a murthering peece, making lanes in armies The first man of a ranke, the whole ranke falling) If you haue once wrong'd one man, y'are so farre From making him amends, that all his race, Friends and associates fall into your chace: That y'are for periuries the verie prince Of all intelligencers; and your voice Is like an Easterne winde, that where it flies, Knits nets of Catterpillars, with which you catch The prime of all the fruits the kingdome yeeldes. That your politicall head is the curst fount Of all the violence, rapine, crueltie, Tyrannie & Atheisme flowing through the realme. That y'aue a tongue so scandalous, twill cut A perfect Crystall; and a breath that will Kill to that wall a spider; you will iest With God, and your soule to the diuell tender For lust; kisse horror, and with death engender. That your foule bodie is a Lernean fenne Of all the maladies breeding in all men. That you are vtterlie without a soule: And (for your life) the thred of that was spunne, When Clotho slept, and let her breathing rocke Fall in the durt; and Lachesis still drawes it, Dipping her twisting fingers in a boule Defil'd, and croun'd with vertues forced soule. And lastly (which I must for Gratitude Euer remember) That of all my height And dearest life, you are the onlie spring, Only in royall hope to kill the king. Why now I see thou lou'st mee, come to the banquet. LAdies, ye haue not done our banquet right, Nor lookt vpon it with those cheerefull raies That lately turnd your breaths to flouds of gold; Your looks, me thinks, are not drawne out with thoughts, So cleere and free as heeretofore, but fare As if the thicke complexions of men Gouernd within them. Tis not like my Lord That men in women rule; but contrary, For as the Moone (of all things God created) Not only is the most appropriate image Or glasse to shew them how they wax and wane, But in her light and motion, likewise beares Imperiall influences that command In all their powers, and make them wax & wane; So women, that (of all things made of nothing) Are the most perfect images of the Moone (Or still-vnweand sweet Moon-calues with white faces) Not only are paternes of change to men: But as the tender Moon-shine of their beauties Cleeres, or is cloudy, make men glad or sad.