Middleton, Thomas / Rowley, William · published 1620 · first performed or written 1620 (Annals) masque · Prince Charles's Men (first) unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 519 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
MUSES, Usher in those states, And amongst 'em choose your mates, There wants not one, nor one to spare, For thrice three, both your numbers are. learning's Mistress, fair Caliope, Loud Euterpe, sweet Terpsichore, Soft Thalia, sad Melpomene, Pleasant Clio, large Eratho, High aspiring eyed Urania, honey-lingued Polihymnia; Leave awhile your Thespian Springs, And usher in those more than Kings: We call them Worthies, 'tis their due, Though long time dead, still live by you. These three were Hebrews, This Noble Duke was he, at whose command Hiperion reined his fiery Coursers in, And fixed stood over Mount Gilboa, This Mattathias son, the Maccabee, Under whose arm no less than Worthies fell. This the most sweet and sacred Psalmograph, These of another sort, of much less knowledge, Little less valour, a Macedonian borne, Whom afterwards the world could scarcely bear, For his great weight in Conquest, this Troy's best soldier; This Rome's first Caesar; these three of latter times, And to the present more familiar. Great Charles of France, and the brave Bulloine Duke, And this is Britain's glory, Kinged thirteen times. Ye 'ave fair aspects, more to express Ioues power, Show you have motion for a jovial hour. Were not these precedents for all future ages? But none attains their glories (King of Stars:) These are the fames are followed, and pursued, But never overtaken. The Fates below, The gods arms are not shortened, nor do we shine With fainter influence; who conquers now, Makes it his tyrant's Prize, and not his Honours, Abusing all the blessings of the gods. Learnings and Arts are Theories, no practics; To understand is all they study too: Men strive to know too much, too little do. Plaints are not ours alone (great Iupiter.) See, Time himself comes weeping. Who has more cause? Who more wronged than Time? Time passes all men With a regardless eye, at best, the worst Expect him with a greedy appetite. The landed Lord looks for his Quarter day, The big-bellied Usurer for his teeming gold That brings him forth the child of Interest: He that beyond the bounds of heavens large blessing, Hath made a fruitless creature to increase: Dull earthen Minerals to propagate, These only do expect and entertain me: But (being come) they bend their plodding heads, And while they count their bags, they let me pass, Yet instant wish me come about again. Would Time deserve their thanks, or Ioue their praise, He must turn Time only to Quarter days. Oh, but my wrongs they are innumerable! The Lawyer drives me off from Term to Term, Bids me (and I do't) bring forth my Alathae My poor child Truth, he sees, and will not see her: What I could manifest in one clear day, He still delays a cloudy jubilee. The Prodigal wastes, and makes me sick with surfeits: The Drunkard (strong in Wine) trips up my heels, And sets me topsy-turvy, on my head, Waking my silent passage in the night With Revels, noise, and Thunder-clapping oaths, And snorting on my bright Meridian, And when they think I pass too slowly by:
seed 43: T53 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
MVSES, Vsher in those states, And amongst 'vm choose your mates, There wants not one, nor one to spare, For thrice three, both your numbers are. Learnings Mistris, faire Caliope, Loude Euterpe, sweet Therpsichore, Soft Thalia, sad Melpomine, Pleasant Clio, large Eratho, High aspiring eyde Vrania, Hony-lingued Polihymnia; Leaue awhile your Thespian Springs, And vsher in those more then Kings: We call them Worthies, 'tis their due, Though long time dead, still liue by you. These three were Hebrewes, This Noble Duke was he, at whose command Hiperion rein'd his fierie Coursers in, And fixed stood ouer Mount Gilboa, This Mattathias sonne, the Macchabee, Vnder whose arme no lesse then Worthies fell. This the most sweet and sacred Psalmograph, These of another sort, of much lesse knowledge, Little lesse valour, a Macedonian borne, Whom afterwards the world could scarcely beare, For his great weight in Conquest, this Troy's best souldiour; This Romes first Caesar; these three of latter times, And to the present more familiar. Great Charles of France, and the braue Bulloine Duke, And this is Brittaines glory, King'd thirteene times. Ye▪aue faire aspects, more to expresse Ioues power, Shew you haue motion for a Iouiall houre. Were not these presidents for all future ages? But none attaines their glories (King of Starres:) These are the fames are follow'd, and pursu'd, But neuer ouertaken. The Fates below, The gods armes are not shorten'd, nor doe we shine With fainter influence; who conquers now, Makes it his Tyrants Prize, and not his Honors, Abusing all the blessings of the gods. Learnings and Arts are Theories, no practiques; To vnderstand is all they studie too: Men striue to know too much, too little doe. Plaints are not ours alone (great Iupiter.) See, Time himselfe comes weeping. Who ha's more cause? Who more wrong'd then Time? Time passes all men With a regardlesse eye, at best, the worst Expect him with a greedy appetite. The landed Lord lookes for his Quarter day, The big-bellied Vsurer for his teeming gold That brings him forth the child of Interest: He that beyond the bounds of heauens large blessing, Hath made a fruitlesse creature to increase: Dull earthen Minerals to propagate, These onely doe expect and entertaine me: But (being come) they bend their plodding heads, And while they count their baggs, they let me passe, Yet instant wish me come about agen. Would Time deserue their thankes, or Ioue their praise, He must turne Time onely to Quarter dayes. Oh, but my wrongs they are innumerable! The Lawyer driues me off from Terme to Terme, Bids me (and I doo't) bring forth my Alathae My poore child Truth, he sees, and will not see her: What I could manifest in one cleere day, He still delayes a cloudy Iubile. The Prodigall wastes, and makes me sick with surfets: The Drunkard (strong in Wine) trips vp my heeles, And sets me topsie-turuy, on my head, Waking my silent passage in the night With Reuels, noise, and Thunder-clapping oathes, And snorting on my bright Meridian, And when they thinke I passe too slowly by: