Chapman, George · published 1613 · first performed or written 1610 [c.1610-1611] (Annals) tragedy · Children of the Queen's Revels · Whitefriars unassigned nearest T25 Kings, power and law: political sententi · 536 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T25: feare, kings, power, princes, lawes, loue, state, downe, honor, men.
They are the breathing Sepulchres of Noblesse: No trulier noble men, than Lions pictures Hung up for signs, are Lions. Who knows not, That lions the more soft kept, are more servile? And look how lions close kept, fed by hand, Lose quite th'innative fire of spirit and greatness That lions free breath, foraging for prey; And grow so gross, that mastiffs, curs, and mongrels Have spirit to cow them: So our soft French Nobles Chained up in ease and numbed security, Their spirits shrunk up like their covetous fists, And never opened but Domitian-like, And all his base obsequious minions When they were catching, though it were but flies. Besotted with their peasants' love of gain, Rusting at home, and on each other preying, Are for their greatness but the greater slaves, And none is noble but who scrapes and saves. 'tis base, 'tis base; and yet they think them high. So Children mounted on their hobby-horse, Think they are riding, when with wanton toil They bear what should bear them. A man may well Compare them to those foolish great-spleened Camels, That to their high heads, begged of Ioue horns higher; Whose most uncomely, and ridiculous pride When he had satisfied, they could not use, But where they went upright before, they stooped, And bore their heads much lower for their horns. As these high men do, low in all true grace, Their height being privilege to all things base. And as the foolish Poet that still writ All his most self-loved verse in paper royal, Or Parchment ruled with Lead, smoothed with the Pumice; Bound richly up, and strung with Crimson strings; Never so blessed as when he writ and read The Ape-loved issue of his brain; and never But joying in himself; admiring ever: Yet in his works behold him, and he showed Like to a ditcher. So these painted men, All set on outside, look upon within, And not a peasant's entrails you shall find More foul and mezeled, nor more starved of mind. That makes their bodies fat. I fain would know How many millions of our other Nobles Would make one Guise. There is a true tenth Worthy, Who (did not one act only blemish him.) One act? what one? One, that (though years past done) Sticks by him still, and will distain him ever. Good Heaven! wherein? what one act can you name Supposed his stain, that I'll not prove his luster? To satisfy you, 'twas the Massacre. The Massacre? I thought 'twas some such blemish. O it was heinous. To a brutish sense, But not a manly reason. we so tender The vile part in us, that the part divine We see in hell, and shrink not. Who was first Head of that Massacre? The Guise. 'tis nothing so. Who was in fault for all the slaughters made In Ilion, and about it? Were the Greeks? Was it not Paris ravishing the Queen Of Lacedaemon? Breach of shame and faith? And all the laws of Hospitality? This is the Beastly slaughter made of men, When Truth is overthrown, his Laws corrupted; When souls are smothered in the flattered flesh, Slain bodies are no more than Oxen slain.
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)
They are the breathing Sepulchres of Noblesse: No trulier noble men, then Lions pictures Hung vp for signes, are Lions. Who knowes not, That Lyons the more soft kept, are more seruile? And looke how Lyons close kept, fed by hand, Lose quite th'innatiue fire of spirit and greatnesse That Lyons free breathe, forraging for prey; And grow so grosse, that mastifes, curs, and mungrils Haue spirit to cow them: So our soft French Nobles Chain'd vp in ease and numbd securitie, Their spirits shrunke vp like their couetous fists, And neuer opened but Domitian-like, And all his base obsequious minions When they were catching, though it were but flyes. Besotted with their pezzants loue of gaine, Rusting at home, and on each other preying, Are for their greatnesse but the greater slaues, And none is noble but who scrapes and saues. Tis base, tis base; and yet they thinke them high. So Children mounted on their hobby-horse, Thinke they are riding, when with wanton toile They beare what should beare them. A man may well Compare them to those foolish great-spleen'd Cammels, That to their high heads, beg'd of Ioue hornes higher; Whose most vncomely, and ridiculous pride When hee had satisfied, they could not vse, But where they went vpright before, they stoopt, And bore their heads much lower for their hornes. As these high men doe▪ low in all true grace, Their height being priuiledge to all things base. And as the foolish Poet that still writ All his most selfe-lou'd verse in paper royall, Or Partchment rul'd with Lead, smooth'd with the Pumce; Bound richly vp, and strung with Crimson strings; Neuer so blest as when hee writ and read The Ape-lou'd issue of his braine; and neuer But ioying in himselfe; admiring euer: Yet in his workes behold him, and hee show'd Like to a ditcher. So these painted men, All set on out-side, looke vpon within, And not a pezzants entrailes you shall finde More foule and mezel'd, nor more steru'd of minde. That makes their bodies fat. I faine would know How many millions of our other Nobles Would make one Guise. There is a true tenth Worthy▪ Who (did not one act onely blemish him.) One act? what one? One, that (though yeeres past done) Stickes by him still, and will distaine him euer. Good Heauen! wherein? what one act can you name Suppos'd his staine, that Ile not proue his luster? To satisfie you, twas the Massacre. The Massacre? I thought twas some such blemish. O it was hainous. To a brutish sense, But not a manly reason. Wee so tender The vile part in vs, that the part diuine We see in hell, and shrinke not. Who was first Head of that Massacre? The Guise. Tis nothing so. Who was in fault for all the slaughters made In Ilion, and about it? Were the Greekes? Was it not Paris rauishing the Queene Of Lacaedemon? Breach of shame and faith? And all the lawes of Hospitalitie? This is the Beastly slaughter made of men, When Truth is ouer-throwne, his Lawes corrupted; When soules are smother'd in the flatter'd flesh, Slaine bodies are no more then Oxen slaine.