Alexander, William · published 1637 · first performed or written 1607 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 514 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
Thou hast (dear Lord) prevented my design, Which was to ask of thee, what makes me pale; If Phoebus had no light, could Phoebe shine? No, with the cause of force th'effects must fail. The mirror but gives back as it receives, By just resemblance the objected form, And what impression the ingraver leaves, The wax retains, still to the stamp conform. I am the mirror which reflects thy mind, As forced from thoughts, or flowing from thine eyes; I take the state in which thy state I find; Such is my colour as thy countenance dies. Then how can I rejoice, whilst thou art sad, Whose breast of all thy crosses is the scroll? I am still as thou art, if grieved, or glad, Thy body's shadow, th'essence of thy soul: On that great Planet which divides the years, Of fields inferior as the fruit depends, And as it vanish doth, or pleased appears, In th'earth's cold bosom, life begins, or ends; Sun of my soul, so I subsist by thee, Whose shining virtue leads me as a thrall: From care-bred clouds if that thy face be free, I rise in joys, but if thou faint, I fall. With all my course this countenance best accords, Who as you know, yet never from my birth, Light gestures used, nor did delight in words, Whose pleasant strains were only tuned to mirth. My melancholy Nature feeds on cares, Whilst smothered sorrow by a habit smokes: A thoughtful breast (when burdened with affairs) Doth make a silent mouth, and speaking looks; As for my paleness, it imports but good: The bodies humbling doth exalt the mind, Where fatness (come from food) but serves for food: In fattest bodies, leanest spirits we find. Ah! since I saw th'abhorred Thessalia's bounds, All drenched with blood of Senators and Kings, (As if my soul yet smarted in their wounds) A secret sorrow oftentimes me stings: But since thy Father (braving pain with blows) In the most hideous form affronted death, To him my mind a sad remembrance owes, Which sorrow shall exact whilst I have breath; Yet grieve I that I gave thee cause of grief, Who thoughtst some new mishap did me dismay; To such old sores one worst can give relief; But Time in end may wear my woes away. Why shouldst thou so from me thy thoughts conceal? From thine own soul between whose breasts thou sleepest, To whom (though shown) thou dost them not reveal, But in thyself more inwardly them keep'st? And thou canst hardly hide thyself from me, Who soon in thee each alteration spy, I can comment on all that comes from thee: True love still looks with a suspicious eye: Within our bosom rests not every thought, Tuned by a sympathy of mutual love? Thou marrest the Music if thou change in aught, Which (when distempered) I do quickly prove. Soul of my soul, unfold what is amiss, Some great disaster all my thoughts divine, Whose curiousness may be excused in this, Since it concerns thy State, and therefore mine.
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)
Thou haſt (deare Lord) prevented my deſigne, Which was to aske of thee, what makes me pale; If Phoebus had no light, could Phoebe ſhine? No, with the cauſe of force th'effects muſt faile. The mirrour but gives backe as it receives, By juſt reſemblance the objected forme, And what impreſſion the ingraver leaves, The waxe retains, ſtill to the ſtamp conforme. I am the mirrour which reflects thy minde, As forc'd from thoughts, or flowing from thine eyes; I take the ſtate in which thy ſtate I finde; Such is my colour as thy count'nance dyes. Then how can I rejoyce, whil'ſt thou art ſad, Whoſe breaſt of all thy croſſes is the ſcroule? I am ſtill as thou art, if griev'd, or glad, Thy bodies ſhadow, th'eſſence of thy ſoule: On that great Planet which divides the yeares, Of fields inferiour as the fruit depends, And as it vaniſh doth, or pleas'd appeares, In th'earths cold boſome, life begins, or ends; Sunne of my ſoule, ſo I ſubſiſt by thee, Whoſe ſhining vertue leades me as a thrall: From care-bred clouds if that thy face be free, I riſe in joyes, but if thou faint, I fall. With all my courſe this count'nance beſt accords, Who as you know, yet never from my birth, Light geſtures us'd, nor did delight in words, Whoſe pleaſant ſtraines were onely tun'd to mirth. My melancholy Nature feeds on cares, Whil'ſt ſmothred ſorrow by a habite ſmokes: "A thought-full breaſt (when burden'd with affaires) "Doth make a ſilent mouth, and ſpeaking looks; As for my paleneſſe, it imports but good: "The bodies humbling doth exalt the minde, Where fatneſſe (come from food) but ſerves for food: In fatteſt bodies, leaneſt ſprits we finde. Ah! ſince I ſaw th'abhorr'd Theſſalia's bounds, All drench'd with bloud of Senatours and Kings, (As if my ſoule yet ſmarted in their wounds) A ſecret ſorrow often-times me ſtings: But ſince thy Father (braving paine with blows) In the moſt hideous forme affronted death, To him my minde a ſad remembrance owes, Which ſorrow ſhall exact whil'ſt I have breath; Yet grieve I that I gave thee cauſe of griefe, Who thoughtſt ſome new miſhap did me diſmay; To ſuch old ſores one worſt can give reliefe; But Time in end may weare my woes away. Why ſhould'ſt thou ſo from me thy thoughts conceale? From thine own ſoule between whoſe breaſts thou ſleep'ſt, To whom (though ſhowne) thou doſt them not reveale, But in thy ſelfe more inwardly them keep'ſt? And thou canſt hardly hide thy ſelfe from me, Who ſoone in thee each alteration ſpie, I can comment on all that comes from thee: "True love ſtill looks with a ſuſpitious eye: Within our boſome reſts not every thought, Tun'd by a ſympathie of mutuall love? Thou marr'ſt the Muſicke if thou change in ought, Which (when diſtemper'd) I do quickly prove. Soule of my ſoule, unfold what is amiſſe, Some great diſaſter all my thoughts divine, Whoſe curiouſneſſe may be excus'd in this, Since it concerns thy State, and therefore mine.