Chapman, George · published 1612 · first performed or written 1604 [1604-1605] (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T12 Olympian gods: Jupiter, Juno, Venus and · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T12: iupiter, saturn, iuno, venus, gods, mars, earth, titan, love, fair.
O Gods! a passion thus borne; thus appareled with tears, sighs, swoonings, and all the badges of true sorrow, to be dissembled! by Venus I am sorry I ever set foot in't. Could she, if she dissembled, thus dally with hunger, be deaf to the barking of her appetite, not having these four days relieved nature with one dram of sustenance. For this does she look to be Deified, to have Hymns made of her, nay to her: The Tomb where she is to be no more reputed the ancient monument of our Family the Lysandri; but the new erected Altar of Cynthia: To which all the Paphian widows shall after their husband's Funerals, offer their wet muckenders, for monuments of the danger they have passed, as Seamen do their wet garments at Neptune's Temple after a ship wrack. Well, I'll apprehend you, at your pleasure: I for my part will say; that if her faith be as constant as her love is hearty, and unaffected, her virtues may justly challenge a Deity to enshrine them. ay, there's another point too. But one of those virtues is enough at once. All natures are not capable of all gifts. If the brain of the West, were in the heads of the learned; then might parish-clerks be common counsel men, and poet's Aldermen's deputies. My sister may turn Niobe for love; but till Niobe be turned to a Marble, I'll not despair but she may prove a woman. Let the trial run on, if she do not outrun it, I'll say Poets are no Prophets, Prognosticators are but mountebanks, & none tell true but woodmongers. A sweet Gentleman you are. I marvel what man? what woman? what name? what action doth his tongue glide over, but it leaves a slime upon't. Well, I'll presently to Dipolis, where Lysander stays; and will not say but she may prove frail: But this I'll say, If she should chance to break, Her tears are true, though women's truths are weak. O Miracle of nature! women's glory; Men's shame; and envy of the Deities! Yet must these matchless creatures be suspected; Accused; condemned! Now by th'immortal Gods, They rather merit Altars, Sacrifice, Than love and courtship. Yet see the Queen of these lies here interred; Tearing her hair; and drowned in her tears. Which Ioue should turn to Crystal; and a Mirror Make of them; wherein men may see and wonder At women's virtues. Shall she famish then? Will men (without dissuasions) suffer thus So bright an Ornament to earth, tombed quick. In Earth's dark bosom: Ho! Who's in the Tomb there? Who calls? whence are you? I am a Soldier of the watch and must enter. Amongst the dead? do the dead speak? open or I'll force it open. What violence is this? what seek you here Where nought but death and her attendants dwell. What wretched souls are you that thus by night lurk here amongst the dead?
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)
O Gods! a passion thus borne; thus apparell'd with teares, sighes, swownings, and all the badges of true sorrow, to be dissembl'd! by Venus I am sorrie I euer set foot in't. Could shee, if shee dissembl'd, thus dally with hunger, be deafe to the barking of her appetite, not hauing these foure daies relieu'd nature with one dramme of sustenance. For this does shee looke to bee Deified, to haue Hymnes made of her, nay to her: The Tomb where she is to be no more reputed the ancient monument of our Familie the Lysandri; but the new erected Altar of Cynthia: To which all the Paphian widdowes shall after their husbands Funeralls, offer their wet muckinders, for monuments of the danger they haue past, as Sea-men doe their wet garments at Neptunes Temple after a ship wracke. Well, Ile apprehend you, at your pleasure: I for my part will say; that if her faith bee as constant as her loue is heartie, and vnaffected, her vertues may iustly challenge a Deitie to enshrine them. I, there's an other point too. But one of those vertues is enough at once. All natures are not capable of all gifts. If the braine of the West, were in the heads of the learned; then might Parish-Clerkes be common counsaile men, and Poets Aldermens deputies. My sister may turne Niobe for loue; but till Niobe bee turn'd to a Marble, Ile not despaire but shee may proue a woman. Let the triall runne on, if shee doe not out-runne it, Ile say Poets are no Prophets, Prognosticators are but Mountibankes, & none tell true but wood-mongers. A sweet Gentleman you are. I meruaile what man? what woman? what name? what action doth his tongue glide ouer, but it leaues a slime vpon't. Well, Ile presently to Dipolis, where Lysander staies; and will not say but shee may proue fraile: But this Ile say, If she should chance to breake, Her teares are true▪ though womens truths are weake. O Miracle of nature! womens glorie; Mens shame; and enuie of the Deities! Yet must these matchlesse creatures be suspected; Accus'd; condemn'd! Now by th'immortall Gods, They rather merit Altars, Sacrifice, Then loue and courtship. Yet see the Queene of these lies here interred; Tearing her haire; and drowned in her teares. Which Ioue should turne to Christall; and a Mirrour Make of them; wherein men may see and wonder At womens vertues. Shall shee famish then? Will men (without disswasions) suffer thus So bright an Ornament to earth, tomb'd quick. In Earths darke bosome: Ho! Who's in the Tombe there? Who calls? whence are you? I am a Souldier of the watch and must enter. Amongst the dead? Doe the dead speake? ope or Ile force it open. What violence is this? what seeke you here Where nought but death and her attendants dwell. What wretched soules are you that thus by night lurke here amongst the dead?