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 · 497 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Still sans question mad? O where doth Piety and Pity rest? Fetch cords he's irrecoverable, mad, rank mad, He calls for strange Chimaeras, fictions That have no being since the curse of death Was thrown on man: Pity and Piety, who'll deign converse with them? alas vain head, Pity and Piety are long since dead. Ruin to Chance, and all that strive to stand, Like swollen Colosses on her tottering Base. Fortune is blind— You lie, you lie, None but a mad man would term Fortune blind, How can she see to wound desert so right? just in the speeding place: to girt lewd brows With honoured wreath; ha? Fortune blind? away, How can she hoodwinked then so rightly see, To starve rich worth and glut iniquity? O Love! Love? hang love, It is the abject outcast of the world, Hate all things, hate the world, thyself, all men, Hate knowledge, strive not to be overwise, It drew destruction into Paradise, Hate Honour, Virtue, they are baits, That 'tice men's hopes to sadder fates, Hate beauty, every ballad-monger, Can cry his idle foppish humour Hate riches, wealths a flattering Jack, adores to face, mews hind thy back. He that is poor is firmly sped, He never shall be flattered, All things are error, dirt and nothing, Or pant with want or gorged to loathing, Love only hate, affect no higher Than praise of heaven, wine, a fire. Suck up thy days in silent breath, When their snuffs out come signior death. Now Sir adieu run mad and twilt, The worst is this my rhymes but spilled. Thy rhymes are spilled who would not run rank mad, To see a wandering French man rival, nay Outstrip my suit. He kissed my Celia's cheek, Why man I saw my dog even kiss thy Celia's lips, Tomorrow morn they go to wed, Well then I know. Whether tomorrow night they go. Say quick. To bed I will invoke the triple Hecate, Make charms as potent as the breath of Fate, But I'll confound the match, Nay then good day, And you be conjuring once I'll slink away, Boy could not Orpheus make the stones to dance? Yes Sir. by'r Lady a sweet touch: did he not bring Eurydice out of hell with his lute. So they say Sir, And thou chanced bring Celia's head out of the window with thy Lute, well hazard thy breath: look Sir hears a ditty. 'tis foully writ slight wit crossed here and there, But where thou findst a blot, their fall a tear. Fie peace, peace, peace, it hath no passion in't. O melt thy breath in fluent softer tunes That every note may seem to trickle down Like sad distilling tears and make: O God That I were but a Poet now t'express my thoughts Or a Musitian but to sing my thoughts Or any thing but what I am, sing't over once more My griefs a boundless sea that hath no shore.
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)
Still saunce question mad? O where doth Piety and Pitty rest? Fetch cordes he's irrecouerable, mad, ranke madde, He calls for strange Chymeras, fictions That haue no being since the curse of death Was throwne on man: Pitty and Piety, Whole daine conuerse with them? alas vaine head, Pitty and Piety are long since dead. Ruine to Chaunce, and all that striue to stand, Like swolne Colosses on her tottering Base. Fortune is blinde— You lye, you lye, None but a mad man would terme Fortune blind, How can shee see to wound desert so right? Iust in the speeding place: to girt leud browes With honord wreath; ha? Fortune blinde? away, How can she hud-winkt then so rightly see, To starue rich worth and glut iniquitie? O Loue! Loue? hang loue, It is the abiect out-cast of the world, Hate all things, hate the world, thy selfe, all men, Hate knowledge, striue not to be ouer-wise, ,,It drew distruction into Paradise, Hate Honor, Vertue, they are baites, That tice mens hopes to sadder fates, Hate beautie, euery ballad-monger, Can cry his idle soppish humor Hate riches, wealthes a flattering Iacke, A dors to face, mewes hind thy backe. He that is poore is firmely sped, He neuer shall be flattered▪ All thinges are error, durt and nothing, Or pant with want or gorg'd to lothing, Loue onely hate, affect no higher Then praise of heauen, wine, a fire. Suck vp thy daies in silent breath, When their snuffs out come Sinior death. Now Sir adieu runne mad and twilt, The worst is this my rimes but spilt. Thy rimes are spilt who would not run ranke mad, To see a wandring French man riuall, nay Out-strip my sute. He kist my Celias cheeke, Why man I saw my dog euen kisse thy Celias lippes, To morrow morne they goe to wed, Well then I know. Whether to morrow night they goe. Say quick. To bed I will inuoke the triple Heccate, Make charmes as potent as the breath of Fate, But Ile confound the match, Nay then good day, And you be coniuring once Ile slink away, Boy could not Orpheus make the stones to daunce? Yes Sir. Bir Lady a sweete touch: did he not bring Euridice out of hell with his lute. So they say Sir, And thou chanst bring Celias head out of the window with thy Lute, well hazard thy breath: looke Sir heares a ditty. Tis fouly writ slight wit cross'd here and there, But where thou findst a blot, their fall a teare. Fie peace, peace, peace, it hath no passion int. O melt thy breath in fluent softer tunes That euery note may seeme to tricle downe Like sad distilling teares and make: O God That I were but a Poet now t'expresse my thoughts Or a Musitian but to sing my thoughts Or any thing but what I am, sing't ore once more My greefes a boundles sea that hath no shore.