Marston, John · published 1607 · first performed or written 1607 (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (second) (?) unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 523 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
NOR labours he the favour of the rude, Nor offers sops unto the Stygian Dog To force a silence in his viperous tongues: Nor cares he to insinuate the grace, Of loathed detraction, nor pursues the love Of the nice Critics of this squeamish age, Nor strives he to bear up with every sail Of floating Censure: nor once dreads or cares What envious hand his guiltless Muse hath struck, ,Sweet breath from tainted stomachs who can suck: But to the fair proportioned loves of wit, To the just scale of even poised thoughts: To those that know the pangs of bringing forth A perfect feature: to their gentle minds, That can as soon slight of, as find a blemish, To those as humbly low as to their feet I am obliged to bend: to those his Muse, Makes solemn honour, for their wished delight: He vows industrious sweat shall pale his cheek, But he'll gloze up sleek objects for their eyes: For those he is ashamed, his best's too bad, A silly subject too too simply clad Is all his present, all his ready pay, For many many debts. Give further day I'll give a Proverb, Sufferance giveth ease: So you may once be paid, we once may please. O O I beseech you Sir reclaim his wits, My master's mad, stark mad, alas for love, For love? nay and he be not mad for hate, 'tis amiable fortune; I tell thee youth Right rare and geason: strange? mad for love, O show me him I'll give him reasons straight. So forcible so all invincible, That it shall drag love out: run mad for love? What mortally exsistes, on which our hearts Should be enamoured with such passion? For love? come Phylus; come I'll hang his fate, In steed of love I'll make him mad for hate. But troth say what strains his madness of? Fantastical. Immure him, sconce him, barricado him in't, Fantastical mad, thrice blessed heart; Why hark good Phylus: (o that thy narrow sense, Could but contain me now) all that exists, Takes valuation from opinion: A giddy minion now: pish, thy taste is dull, And canst not relish me, come where's Iacomo. Look where he comes: O map of boundless woe! You gleam is day, darkness, sleep and fear, Dreams, and the ugly visions of the night Are beat to hell by the bright palm of light, Now roams the swain and whistles up the morn: Deep Silence breaks: all things start up with light, Only my heart, that endless night and day, Lies bedrid, crippled by coy Lucea, There's a strain law. Nay now I see he's mad most palpable, He speaks like a player, hah! poetical. The wanton spring lies dallying with the earth, And pours fresh blood in her decayed veins, Look how the new sapped branches are in child With tender infants, how the Sun draws out, And shapes their moisture into thousand forms Of sprouting buds, all things that show or breath, Are now instaured, saving my wretched breast, That is eternally congealed with Ice Of freeze, despair. O Celia, coy, to nice.
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)
NOR labours hee the fauor of the rude, Nor offers sops vnto the Stigian Dogge To force a scilence in his viperous toungs: Nor cares he to insinuate the grace, Of loath'd detraction, nor persues the loue Of the nice Criticks of this squeamish age, Nor striues he to beare vp with euery saile Of floting Censure: nor once dreads or care's What enuious hand his guiltles Muse hath struck, ,,Sweet breath from tainted stomacks who can suck: But to the faire proportion'd loues of witte, To the iust skale of euen paized thoughts: To those that know the pangs of bringing forth A perfect feature: to their gentle mindes, That can as soone slight of, as finde a blemish, To those as vmbly lowe as to their feete I am oblig'd to bend: to those his Muse, Makes solemne honour, for their wish'd delight: He vowes industrious sweat shall pale his cheeke, But heele glose vp sleeke obiects for their eyes: For those he is asham'd, his best's too badd, A silly subiect too too simply cladd Is all his present, all his ready pay, For many many debts. Giue further day Ile giue a Prouerbe, Sufferance giueth ease: So you may once be pai'd, we once may please. O O I beseech you Sir reclaime his wits, My masters mad, starke mad, alasse for loue, For loue? nay and he be not mad for hate, Tis amiable fortune; I tell thee youth Right rare and geason: strang? mad for loue, O show me him Ile giue him reasons straight. So forcible so all inuincible, That it shall drag loue out: run mad for loue? What mortally exsistes, on which our hearts Should be inamored with such passion? For loue? come Phylus; come Ile haung his fate, In steed of loue Ile make him mad for hate. But troth say what straines his madnesse of? Phantasticall. Immure him, skonce him, barrecadoe him int, Phantasticall mad, thrice blessed heart; Why harke good Phylus: (o that thy narrow sence, Could but containe me now) all that exsists, Takes valuation from oppinion: A giddy minion now: pish, thy tast is dull, And canst not rellish me, come wher's Iacomo. Looke where he coms: O map of boundles wo! You gleame is day, darknes, sleepe and feare, Dreames, and the vgly visions of the night Are beate to hell by the bright palme of light, Now romes the swaine and whissells vp the morne: Deepe Silence breakes: all things start vp with light, Only my hart, that endles night and day, Lies bed-red, crippeld by coy Lucea, There's a straine law. Nay now I seee hee's madde most palpable, He speakes like a player, hah! poeticall. The wanton spring lyes dallying with the earth, And powers fresh bloud in her decayed vaines, Looke how the new sapt branches are in childe With tender infants, how the Sunne drawes out, And shapes their moysture into thousand formes Of sprouting buddes, all things that show or breath, Are now instaur'd, sauing my wretched brest, That is eternally congeald with Ice Of froz'd, dispaire. O Celia, coy, to nice.