Greville, Fulke · published 1633 · first performed or written 1596 [c.1594-c.1596] (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
No; Let Man draw, by his owne cursed Square, Such crooked lines, as his fraile thoughts affect: And, like things that of nothing framed are, Decline vnto that Centre of defect: I will disclaime his downfall, and stand free, As natiue riuall to Eternitie. What meanes this New-borne childe of Planets motion? This finite Elfe of Mans vaine acts, and errors? Whose changing wheeles in all thoughts stirre commotion? And in her owne face, onely, beares the Mirror. A Mirror in which, since Time tooke her fall, Mankinde sees Ill increase; no Good at all. Because in your vast mouth you hold your Tayle, As coupling Hges past with times to come; Doe you presume your Trophees shall not fayle, As both Creations Cradle, and her Tombe? Or for beyond your selfe you cannot see, By dayes, and houres; would you Eternall be? Time is the weakest worke of my Creation, And, if not still repayr'd, must straight decay: The Mortall take not my true constellation, And so are daz'led, by her nimble sway, To thinke her course long; which if measur'd right, Is but a Minute of my Infinite. A Minute which doth her subsistence tye; Subsistencies which, in not being, be: Shall is to come; and was is passed by; Time present cements this Duplicitie: And if one must, of force, be like the other, Of Nothing is not Nothing made the mother? Why striues Time then to parallell with me? What be her types of longest lasting glory? Arts, Miters, Lawes, Moments, Supremacie, Of Natures erring Alchymie the storie: From Nothing sprang this point, and must, by course, To that confusion turne againe, or worse. For she, and all her mortall off-springs, build Vpon the mouing Base of selfe-conceipt; Which constant forme can neither take, nor yeeld; But still change shapes, to multiply deceipt: Like playing Atomi, in vaine contending, Though they beginning had, to haue no ending. I, that at once see Times distinct progression; I, in whose bosome was, and Shall, still be; I, that in Causes worke th'Effects Succession, Giuing both Good, and Ill, their destinie; Though I bind all, yet can receiue no bound; But see the finite still it selfe confound. Time! therfore know thy limits, and striue not To make thy selfe, or thy works Infinite, Whose Essence only is to write, and blot: Thy Changes proue thou hast no stablish't right. Gouerne thy mortall Sphere, deale not with mine: Time but the seruant is of Power Diuine. Blame thou this present State, that will blame thee; Brick-wall your errors from one, to another; Both faile alike vnto Eternitie, Goodnesse of no mixt course can be the mother. Both you, and yours doe couet states Eternall; Whence, though pride end, your pains yet be Infernall. Ruine this Masse; worke Change in all Estates, Which, when they serue not me, are in your power: Giue vnto their corruption doomes of Fate; Let your vast wombe your Cadmus -men deuoure. The Vice yeelds scope enough for you, and hell, To compasse ill ends by not doing well.
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)
No; Let Man draw, by his owne cursed Square, Such crooked lines, as his fraile thoughts affect: And, like things that of nothing framed are, Decline vnto that Centre of defect: I will disclaime his downfall, and stand free, As natiue riuall to Eternitie. What meanes this New-borne childe of Planets motion? This finite Elfe of Mans vaine acts, and errors? Whose changing wheeles in all thoughts stirre commotion? And in her owne face, onely, beares the Mirror. A Mirror in which, since Time tooke her fall, Mankinde sees Ill increase; no Good at all. Because in your vast mouth you hold your Tayle, As coupling Hges past with times to come; Doe you presume your Trophees shall not fayle, As both Creations Cradle, and her Tombe? Or for beyond your selfe you cannot see, By dayes, and houres; would you Eternall be? Time is the weakest worke of my Creation, And, if not still repayr'd, must straight decay: The Mortall take not my true constellation, And so are daz'led, by her nimble sway, To thinke her course long; which if measur'd right, Is but a Minute of my Infinite. A Minute which doth her subsistence tye; Subsistencies which, in not being, be: Shall is to come; and was is passed by; Time present cements this Duplicitie: And if one must, of force, be like the other, Of Nothing is not Nothing made the mother? Why striues Time then to parallell with me? What be her types of longest lasting glory? Arts, Miters, Lawes, Moments, Supremacie, Of Natures erring Alchymie the storie: From Nothing sprang this point, and must, by course, To that confusion turne againe, or worse. For she, and all her mortall off-springs, build Vpon the mouing Base of selfe-conceipt; Which constant forme can neither take, nor yeeld; But still change shapes, to multiply deceipt: Like playing Atomi, in vaine contending, Though they beginning had, to haue no ending. I, that at once see Times distinct progression; I, in whose bosome was, and Shall, still be; I, that in Causes worke th'Effects Succession, Giuing both Good, and Ill, their destinie; Though I bind all, yet can receiue no bound; But see the finite still it selfe confound. Time! therfore know thy limits, and striue not To make thy selfe, or thy works Infinite, Whose Essence only is to write, and blot: Thy Changes proue thou hast no stablish't right. Gouerne thy mortall Sphere, deale not with mine: Time but the seruant is of Power Diuine. Blame thou this present State, that will blame thee; Brick-wall your errors from one, to another; Both faile alike vnto Eternitie, Goodnesse of no mixt course can be the mother. Both you, and yours doe couet states Eternall; Whence, though pride end, your pains yet be Infernall. Ruine this Masse; worke Change in all Estates, Which, when they serue not me, are in your power: Giue vnto their corruption doomes of Fate; Let your vast wombe your Cadmus-men deuoure. The Vice yeelds scope enough for you, and hell, To compasse ill ends by not doing well.