Technogamia, or The Marriages of the Arts · chunk 25 of 64
Holyday, Barten · published 1618 · first performed or written 1618 [Feb 13] (Annals) comedy · at University unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 464 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Pardon once more, Sir, here comes sent by her, Medicus, Servant to administer The Physic. Why, I prithee know I lack No Physic, there 'tis, thou mayst carry't back. The Gods forbid, Sir, this is Poison. How! 'Tis Poison, Sir. Why? it was sent but now From my lovesick Historia. So 't may be: They've changed my Master's Physic. Oh to see The Treachery of women! well, conceal The fact as yet; just time shall all reveal. O Women, Witches, Monsters, Furies Devils, The impure extract of a World of evils; Nature's great Error; the obliquity Of the God's Wisdom; and th' Anomaly From all that's good; I'll curse you all below The Centre, and, if I could, than further throw Your cursed heads; and if any should gain A place in Heaven, I'll time 'em down again To a worse ruin; yet methinks I hear How Astronomia whispers in mine ear, And begs a Pardon for them; well; to thee I'll yield, thou stand'st above mortality. Aspire, my gentle Muse, inflame my breast; Then thus my graceful love shall be expressed. Her Brow is like a brave Heroic line, That does a sacred Majesty enshrine. Her Nose Phaleuciac-like in comely sort Ends in a trochee, or a long and short. Her Mouth is like a pretty Dimeter; Her Eyebrows like a little-longer Trimeter. Her Chin is an Adonic; and her Tongue— Is an Hypermeter, somewhat too-long. Her Eyes, I may compare them unto two Quick-turning Dactyls, for their nimble View. Her Neck Asclepiad-like turns round about Behind, before a little bone stands out. Her Ribs like staves of Sapphics do descend Thither, which but to name were to offend. Her Arms like two Iambics raised on high, Do with her Brow bear equal Majesty. Her Legs like two straight Spondees, keep apace Slow as two Scazons, but with stately grace. Thanks to my Muse; yet why do I admire Her thus, whom I enjoy but by desire? For more I never shall; this is my weight Of grief, and this my preordained Fate. Come, come, thou part of Heaven, companion Of all my woes and loves, thou that alone Dost in the midst of sorrows yield relief, And though not take away, make less my grief. My dearest Lute, Apoollo's best invention Wherewith he does compose the wild dissension Of our untuned desires, which would confound Us quite, but that they break forth with a sound! Sighs from our breasts are like sounds from thy womb, Borne dead, and buried in an airy Tomb. Sigh then to Cupid, tell him he's too blame Not raising in my love a mutual flame. Ho, Melancholico. Here Sir. begone. Did you not call me Sir? Sirrah, begone. Ho, Melancholico. Sir. Dance, I say, Dance. I can't.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Pardon once more, Sir, here comes ſent by her, Medicus, Seruant to adminiſter The Phyſicke. —Why, I prethee know I lacke No Phyſicke, there 'tis, thou maiſt carry't backe. The Gods forbid, Sir, this is Poyſon. — How! 'Tis Poyſon, Sir. —Why? it was ſent but now From my Loue-ſicke Historia. —So 't may be: They'ue chang'd my Maſters Phyſicke. —Oh to ſee The Treacherie of women! well, conceale The fact as yet; iuſt time ſhall all reueale. O Women, Witches, Monſters, Furies Deuils, The impure extract of a World of euils; Natures great Errour; the obliquitie Of the Gods Wiſdome; and th' Anomalie From all that's good; I'l curſe you all below The Center, and, if I could, then further throw Your curſed heads; and if any ſhould gaine A place in Heau'n, Ile time 'em downe againe To a worſe ruine; yet me thinkes I heare How Aſtronomia whiſpers in mine eare, And begs a Pardon for them; well; to thee I'l yeeld, thou ſtand'ſt aboue mortalitie. Aſpire, my gentle Muſe, inflame my breſt; Then thus my gracefull loue ſhall be expreſt. Her Brow is like a braue Heroicke line, That does a ſacred Maieſtie inſhrine. Her Noſe Phaleuciake-like in comely ſort Ends in a Trochie, or a long and ſhort. Her Mouth is like a prettie Dimeter; Her Eie-browes like a little-longer Trimeter. Her Chinne is an Adonicke; and her Tongue— Is an Hyprmeter, ſomewhat too-long. Her Eies, I may compare them vnto two Quick-turning Dactyles, for their nimble View. Her Necke Aclepiad-like turnes round about Behind, before a little bone ſtands out. Her Ribs like Staues of Sapphickes doe deſcend Thither, which but to name were to offend. Her Armes like two Iambickes rais'd on hie, Doe with her Brow beare equall Maieſtie. Her Legs like two ſtrait Spondies, keep a pace Slow as two Scazons, but with ſtately grace. Thankes to my Muſe; yet why doe I admire Her thus, whom I enioy but by deſire? For more I neuer ſhall; this is my waight Of griefe, and this my preordained Fate. Come, come, thou part of Heau'n, companion Of all my woes and loues, thou that alone Doſt in the mid'ſt of ſorrowes yeeld reliefe, And though not take away, make leſſe my griefe. My deareſt Lute, Apoollo's beſt inuention Wherewith he does compoſe the wilde diſſention Of our vntun'd deſires, which would confound Vs quite, but that they breake forth with a ſound! Sighes frō our breſts are like ſounds frō thy wombe, Borne dead, and buri'd in an aërie Tombe. Sigh then to Cupid, tell him he's too blame Not raiſing in my loue a mutuall flame. Ho, Melancholico. —Here Sir. —Begon. Did you not call me Sir? —Sirrah, begon. Ho, Melancholico. —Sir. Dance, I ſay, Dance. —I can't.