Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T19: virtue, fortune, virtues, honour, fame, vice, envy, world, pride, great.
Be patient but a while (sweet Campertie,) And I will make the world do fealty, To thy exalted State: the Law shall stand, Like to a waxen nose, or Lesbian rule. A dial Gnomon, or a weathercock, Turned with the breath of greatness every way, On whose incertainty, our certain ground Of towering height shall stand invincible: The Dubious Law shall nurse dissension, Which being pampered with our feeding helps, we'll swell in greatness and our palace Towers Shall prick the ribs of Heaven with proud height: Then let thy Envy cease, since thy high fate, Shall not discern a fortune more Elate. See with what slight respect they pass from us, Not giving to our birth's their due salutes, O Dearest Lord! shall high borne Bellula? Be sunk, and thus obscured by the proud shine, Of yond sophisticate base Alchemy, You bullion stuff: O noble bloods repine! That dirt usurps the orb, where you should shine. Content thee sweet, the lightning of my arms, Shall purge the air of these gross foggy clouds, That do obscure our births bright radiance, When Iron Mars mounts up his plumy Crest, The Law and Merchandise in rust may rest, Then Envy cease; for ere the Son shall set, I'll buckle on Mavortius' burganet. Summa petit livor, perflant altissima venti, Then poor Chrisoganus, who'll envy thee, Whose dusky fortune hath no shining gloss That envies breath can blast? O I could curse This idiot world! This ill nursed age of Peace, That foster all save virtue; comforts all Saving industrious art, the soul's bright gem, That crusheth down the sprouting stems of Art, Blasts forward wits with frosty cold contempt, Crowning dull clods of earth with honours, Wreathe guilding the rotten face of barbarism With the unworthy shine of Eminence. O! I could wish myself consumed in air, When I behold these huge fat lumps of flesh, These big-bulked painted posts, that senseless Stand, to have their backs pasted with dignity, Quite choking up all passage to respect: These huge Colossi that roll up and down, And fill up all the seat of man with froth Of outward semblance, whilst pale Artisans. Pine in the shades of gloomy Academes, Faint in pursuit of virtue, and quite tired For want of liberal food: for liberal Art Give up the goal to sluggish Ignorance. O whether doth my passion carry me? Poor fool, leave prating, envy not their shine, Who still will flourish, though great Fate repine. Jack of the Clockhouse, where's Master post-haste? In my book for Slow-pace, twelvepence on'spate, for staying so late. Prologue begin; rehearse, &c. Gentlemen in this envious age we bring Bayard For Bucephalus: if mired, bogged, Draw him forth with your favours, So promising that we never mean to perform Our Prologue peaceth. Peaceth? what peaking Pagenter penned that? Who but Master Post-Haste. It is as dangerous to read his name at a play-door As a printed bill on a plague door. You wear the handsomest compassed hilt I have seen; Doth this fashion like my friend so well.
seed 43: T13 · seed 44: T16 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Be patient but a while (sweete Campertie,) And I will make the world doe fealty, To thy exalted State: the Law shall stand, Like to a waxen nose, or Lesbian rule. A diall Gnomon, or a wethercocke, Turn'd with the breath of greatnesse euery way, On whose incertaintie, our certaine ground Of towring hight shall stand inuincible: The Dubious Law shall nurse dissention, Which being pamper'd with our feeding helpes, Wee'le swell in greatnesse and our pallace Towers Shall pricke the ribs of Heauen with proud height: Then let thy Enuy cease, since thy high fate, Shall not discerne a fortune more Elate. Se with what slight respect they passe from vs, Not giuing to our birth's their due saluts, O Deerest Lord! shall high borne Bellula? Be suncke, and thus obscur'd by the proud shine, Of yon sophisticate base Alcumie, You bllion stuffe: O noble blouds repine! That durt vsurpes the orbe, where you should shine. Content thee sweet, the lightning of my armes, Shall purge the aire of these grosse foggy clouds, That doe obscure our births bright radiance, When Iron Mars mounts vp his plumy Crest, The Law and Merchandize in rust may rest, Then Euy cease; for e're the Sonne shall set, Ile buckle on Mauortius burganet. Snmma petit liuor, perflant altissima venti, Then poore Chrisoganus, whole enuy thee, Whose dusky fortune hath no shining glosse That Enuies breath can blast? O I could curse This ideot world! This ill nurs'd age of Peace, That foster all saue vertue; comforts all Sauing industrious art, the soules bright gemme, That crussheth downe the sprowting stemmes of Art, Blasts forward wits with frosty cold contempt, Crowning dull clodds of earth with honours, Wreath guilding the rotten face of barbarisme With the vnworthy shine of Eminence. O! I could wish my selfe consum'd in aire, When I behold these huge fat lumpes of flesh, These big-bulkt painted postes, that sencelesse Ssand, to haue their backes pasted with dignity, Quite choaking vp all passage to respect: These huge Colossi that rowle vp and downe, And fill vp all the seate of man with froth Of outward semblance, whilst pale Artizans. Pine in the shades of gloomy Academes, Faint in pursuite of vertue, and quite tierd For want of liberall food▪ for liberall Art Giue vp the goale to sluggish Ignorance. O whether doth my passion carry mee? Poore foole, leaue prating, enuy not their shine, Who still will florish, though great Fate repine. Iacke of the Clock-house, wher's Maister Post-hast? In my booke for Slow-pace, twelue-pence on'spate, for staying so late. Prologue begin; rehearse, &c. Gentlemen in this enuious age we bring Bayard For Bucephalus: if mierd, bogg'd, Draw him forth with your fauours, So promising that we neuer meane to performe Our Prologue peaceth. Peaceth? what peaking Pagnter pend that? Who but Maister Post-hast. It is as dangerous to read his name at a playe-dore As a printed bill on a plague dore. You weare the hansom'st compast hilt I haue seene; Doth this fashion like my friend so well.