The Masque at Lord Haddington's Marriage (The Hue and Cry after the Fugitive Cupid) · chunk 2 of 4
Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1608 [Feb 9] (Annals) masque · before the Court unassigned nearest T46 Swords, quarrels and valour · 430 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T46: rapier, sword, fight, gentlemen, gentleman, kicked, kill, dagger, signor, valour.
He doth beare a golden Bow And a Quiuer, hanging low, Full of arrowes, that out-braue DIAN'S shafts: where, if he haue Any head more sharpe then other, With that first he strikes his mother. Still the fairest are his fuell. When his daies are to be cruell, Louers hearts are all his food; And his bathes their warmest bloud: Nought but wounds his hand doth season; And he hates none like to Reason. Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldome with his heart doe meet. All his practise is deceit; Euerie gift it is a bait; Not a kisse, but poyson beares; And most treason in his teares. Idle minutes are his raigne; Then, the straggler makes his gaine, By presenting maids with toyes, And would haue yee thinke 'hem ioyes: 'Tis the ambition of the elfe, To 'haue all childish, as himselfe. If by these yee please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him. Though yee had a will, to hide him, Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him. Since yee heare his falser play; And that he is VENVS Run-away. COme my little iocound sports, Come away; the time now sorts With your pastime: This same night Is CVPID'S day. Aduance your light. With your Reuell fill the roome, That our triumphs be not dumbe. WEll done Antiques: Now, my Bow, And my Quiuer beare to show; That these Beauties, here, may know, By what armes this feat was done, That hath so much honor wonne, Vnto VENVS, and her Sonne. WHat feat, what honor is it, that you boast, My little straggler? I had giuen you lost, With all your games, here. Mother? Yes sir, she. What might your glorious cause of triumph be? Ha'you shot MINERVA, or the Thespian dames? Heat aged OPS againe, with youthfull flames? Or haue you made the colder Moone to visit Once more, a sheepe-cote? Say, what conquest is it Can make you hope such a renowne to winne? Is there a second HERCVLES brought to spinne? Or, for some new disguise, leaues IOVE his thunder? NOr that, nor those, and yet no lesse a wonder; Which to tell, I may not stay: HYMEN'S presence bids away; 'Tis, alreadie, at his night, He can giue you farther light. You, my sports may here abide, Till I call, to light the Bride. VENVS, is this a time to quit your carre? To stoope to earth? to leaue, alone, your starre, Without your influence? and, on such a night, Which should be crown'd with your most chearing sight?
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)
He doth beare a golden Bow And a Quiuer, hanging low, Full of arrowes, that out-braue DIAN'S shafts: where, if he haue Any head more sharpe then other, With that first he strikes his mother. Still the fairest are his fuell. When his daies are to be cruell, Louers hearts are all his food; And his bathes their warmest bloud: Nought but wounds his hand doth season; And he hates none like to Reason. Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldome with his heart doe meet. All his practise is deceit; Euerie gift it is a bait; Not a kisse, but poyson beares; And most treason in his teares. Idle minutes are his raigne; Then, the straggler makes his gaine, By presenting maids with toyes, And would haue yee thinke 'hem ioyes: 'Tis the ambition of the elfe, To 'haue all childish, as himselfe. If by these yee please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him. Though yee had a will, to hide him, Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him. Since yee heare his falser play; And that he is VENVS Run-away. COme my little iocound sports, Come away; the time now sorts With your pastime: This same night Is CVPID'S day. Aduance your light. With your Reuell fill the roome, That our triumphs be not dumbe. WEll done Antiques: Now, my Bow, And my Quiuer beare to show; That these Beauties, here, may know, By what armes this feat was done, That hath so much honor wonne, Vnto VENVS, and her Sonne. WHat feat, what honor is it, that you boast, My little straggler? I had giuen you lost, With all your games, here. Mother? Yes sir, she. What might your glorious cause of triumph be? Ha'you shot MINERVA, or the Thespian dames? Heat aged OPS againe, with youthfull flames? Or haue you made the colder Moone to visit Once more, a sheepe-cote? Say, what conquest is it Can make you hope such a renowne to winne? Is there a second HERCVLES brought to spinne? Or, for some new disguise, leaues IOVE his thunder? NOr that, nor those, and yet no lesse a wonder; Which to tell, I may not stay: HYMEN'S presence bids away; 'Tis, alreadie, at his night, He can giue you farther light. You, my sports may here abide, Till I call, to light the Bride. VENVS, is this a time to quit your carre? To stoope to earth? to leaue, alone, your starre, Without your influence? and, on such a night, Which should be crown'd with your most chearing sight?