Technogamia, or The Marriages of the Arts · chunk 20 of 64
Holyday, Barten · published 1618 · first performed or written 1618 [Feb 13] (Annals) comedy · at University unassigned nearest T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma · 475 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
But stay— O my Anacreon, my Anacreon, I have lost my Anacreon: Varlets, Villains, I'm deluded, my pockets are picked; I have lost my Anacreon: did I dream? or did I make Verses? or was I mad? now my dream's out, 'tis out indeed, all; for now I remember me, I left out the worst part unexpounded, and that was their vanishing from me: well, this 'tis to be a stargazer, and fall into a pit; I was thinking of Astronomia, when I was by promise to have met with Geographus: well, I'll pursue my first intendment, and to Geographus for the learning of the languages; and fear ne'er a corrival under Heaven, now Mithridates, and Scaliger are dead. ay, But Medicus, who brought you word that Poeta was sick? Why, Historia has sent one unto me, now to entreat me to minister unto him my best physic; and the messenger told me (as he heard, it seems) the occasion thereof, which was, that Historia who was in love with him, hearing that he was hurt in a fray with Logicus and Grammaticus, out of the jealous fear of her abundant love, sent to me thus carefully, upon the suspicion of his hurt. Why, Physiognomus, did Poeta seem to you, to be well? Yes, i'faith; or if he were sick 'twas more in mind then in body. Well, Medicus, where's the messenger? Why, at my house expecting my return. Back then, in all haste, and by her servant send him poison, that if he be sick he may die: and so one may be removed out of geometre's his way. And if the poison chance to be discovered, thou mayst pretend 'twas her treachery, because he does not love her, and that thy physic was good. Let me alone, I warrant you; but if I can but once come to the handling of him myself, I'll give him but a clyster, & blow him up with a Powder, I warrant him. But, Physiognomus, are you sure 'twas he? did not you mistake him? Faith, neither of us knew him very well; but Cheiromantes has brought some testimonies from him. What, I prithee? what? marry, Sir, a book, and that I think is a sign of a Scholar; but I have a purse too, and that, I think, is not a sign of a Scholar. What's in't? what's in't? Nay, I'll swear, we both ran since I Nimbed it, that we durst not be so bold yet, as to take leisure to look in't, but now I'll see. What's this? Anacreon? an old bawdy Poet? a fit companion for such a Gallant. A fire burn it; here's nothing but a scurvy paper. But a murrain, how couldst thou possibly get these things from him? Faith, Cheiromantes, by the slight of the Hand did it very neatly.
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)
But ſtay—O my Anacreon, my Anacreon, I haue loſt my Anacreon: Varlets, Villaines, I'me deluded, my pockets are pickt; I haue loſt my Anacreon: did I dreame? or did I make Verſes? or was I mad? now my dreame's out, 'tis out indeed, all; for now I remember me, I left out the worſt part vnexpounded, and that was their vaniſhing from me: well, this 'tis to be a Starre-gazer, and fall into a pit; I was thinking of Aſtronomia, when I was by promiſe to haue met with Geographus: well, Ile purſue my firſt intendment, and to Geographus for the learning of the languages; and feare ne're a corriuall vnder Heauen, now Mithridates, and Scaliger are dead. I, But Medicus, who brought you word that Poeta was ſicke? Why, Historia has ſent one vnto mee, now to intreat me to miniſter vnto him my beſt phyſicke; and the meſſenger told me (as he heard, it ſeemes) the occaſion thereof, which was, that Hiſtoria who was in loue with him, hearing that he was hurt in a fray with Logicus and Grammaticus, out of the iealous feare of her abundant loue, ſent to me thus carefully, vpon the ſuſpicion of his hurt. Why, Phyſiognomus, did Poeta ſeeme to you, to be well? Yes, ifaith; or if hee were ſicke 'twas more in mind then in body. Well, Medicus, where's the meſſenger? Why, at my houſe expecting my returne. Backe then, in all haſte, and by her ſeruant ſend him poyſon, that if he be ſicke he may die: and ſo one may be remou'd out of Geometres his way. And if the poyſon chance to be diſcouer'd, thou maiſt pretend 'twas her treachery, becauſe he does not loue her, and that thy phyſicke was good. Let mee alone, I warrant you; but if I can but once come to the handling of him my ſelfe, Ile giue him but a clyſter, & blow him vp with a Pouder, I warrāt him. But, Phyſiognomus, are you ſure 'twas he? did not you miſtake him? Faith, neither of vs knew him very well; but Cheiromantes has brought ſome teſtimonies from him. What, I prethee? what? Mary, Sir, a booke, and that I thinke is a ſigne of a Scholer; but I haue a purſe too, and that, I thinke, is not a ſigne of a Scholer. What's in't? what's in't? Nay, Ile ſweare, wee both ran ſince I Nimb'd it, that wee durſt not be ſo bold yet, as to take leiſure to looke in't, but now Ile ſee. What's this? Anacreon? an old bawdy Poet? a fit companion for ſuch a Gallant. A fire burne it; here's nothing but a ſcuruy paper. But a murren, how couldſt thou poſſibly get theſe things from him? Faith, Cheiromantes, by the ſlight of the Hand did it very neatly.