Time Vindicated to Himself and to His Honors · chunk 5 of 6
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1623 [Jan 19] (Annals) masque · before the Court T21 Cupid, Venus and the nymphs typicality 0.74 · 517 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T21: cupid, venus, love, ceres, diana, fair, nymphs, goddess, bow, damon.
What grief, or envy had it been, That these, and such had not been seen, But still obscured in shade! Who are the glories of the Time, Of youth, and feature too, the prime, And for the light were made! 1 Their very number, how it takes! 2 What harmony their presence makes! 3 How they inflame the place! Now they are nearer seen, and viewed; For whom could Love have better sued? Or Time have done the grace? The night could not these glories miss, Good Time, I hope, is ta'en with this. If Time were not, I'm sure Love is. Between us it shall be no strife: For now 'tis Love, giveth Time his life. Let Time than so with Love conspire, as strait be sent into the court A little Cupid, armed with fire, Attended by a jocund Sport, To breed delight, and a desire of being delighted, in the nobler sort. The wish is crowned, as soon as made. And CUPID conquers, e're he doth invade. His victories of lightest trouble prove. For there is never labour, where is Love. Take breath awhile, young Bloods, to bring Your forces up, whilst we go sing Fresh charges, to the Beauties here. Or, if they charge you, do not fear, Though they be better armed than you: It is but standing the first view, And than they yield. Or quit the field. Nay, that they'll never do. They'll rather fall upon the place, Than suffer such disgrace. You are but Men at best, they say, And they from those ne'er ran away. You, Sir, that are the Lord of Time, Receive it not as any crime 'Gainst Majesty, that Love and Sport Tonight have entered in your Court. Sir, doubt him more of some surprise Upon yourself. He hath his eyes. You are the noblest object here, And 'tis for you alone I fear: For here are Ladies, that would give A brave reward, to make Love live Well, all his life, for such a draught. And therefore, look to every shaft, The Wags a Deacon in his craft. My Lords, the Honours of the Crown, Put of your sourness, do not frown, Bid cares departed, and business hence: A little, for the Time dispense. Trust nothing that the Boy let's fall, My Lords, he hath plots upon you all. A Pensioner unto your wives, To keep you inuxorious gives, And so your sense to fascinate, To make you quit all thought of state, His amorous questions to debate. But, hear his Logic, he will prove There is no business, but to be in love. The words of Sport, my Lords, and course. Your Ladies yet, will not think worse Of Love for this: they shall command My Bow, my Quiver, and my Hand. What, here to stand and kill the Flies? Alas, thy service they despise. One Beauty here, hath in her eyes, Moore shafts than from thy bow o'er flew, Or that poor quiver knew. These Dames, They need not Love's, they have Nature's flames: I see the Beauty, that you so report.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 288–366 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 5 of 6 in this edition
Length
517 words · 695 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T21 — Cupid, Venus and the nymphscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.745 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T24 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
What griefe, or envie had it beene, That theſe, and ſuch had not beene ſeene, But ſtill obſcur'd in ſhade! Who are the glories of the Time, Of youth, and feature too, the prime, And for the light were made! 1 Their very number, how it takes! 2 What harmony their preſence makes! 3 How they inflame the place! Now they are neerer ſeene, and viewd; For whom could Love have better ſu'd? Or Time have done the grace? The night could not theſe glories miſſe, Good Time, I hope, is ta'ne with this. If Time were not, I'am ſure Love is. Betweene us it ſhall be no ſtrife: For now 'tis Love, gives Time his life. Let Time then ſo with Love conſpire, as ſtraight be ſent into the court A little Cupid, arm'd with fire, Attended by a jocund Sport, To breed delight, and a deſire of being delighted, in the nobler ſort. The wiſh is crown'd, as ſoone as made. And CVPID conquers, e're he doth invade. His victories of lighteſt trouble prove. For there is never labour, where is Love. Take breath awhile, young Blouds, to bring Your forces up, whilſt we goe ſing Freſh charges, to the Beauties here. Or, if they charge you, doe not feare, Though they be better arm'd then you: It is but ſtanding the firſt view, And then they yeeld. Or quit the field. Nay, that they'l never doe. They'l rather fall upon the place, Then ſuffer ſuch diſgrace. You are but Men at beſt, they ſay, And they from thoſe ne're ran away. You, Sir, that are the Lord of Time, Receive it not as any crime 'Gainſt Majeſty, that Love and Sport Tonight have entred in your Court. Sir, doubt him more of ſome ſurpriſe Vpon your ſelfe. He hath his eyes. You are the nobleſt object here, And 'tis for you alone I feare: For here are Ladyes, that would give A brave reward, to make Love live Well, all his life, for ſuch a draught. And therefore, looke to every ſhaft, The Wags a Deacon in his craft. My Lords, the Honors of the Crowne, Put off your ſowreneſſe, doe not frown, Bid cares depart, and buſineſſe hence: A little, for the Time diſpence. Truſt nothing that the Boy lets fall, My Lords, he hath plots upon you all. A Penſioner unto your wives, To keepe you inuxorious gives, And ſo your ſenſe to faſcinate, To make you quit all thought of ſtate, His amorous queſtions to debate. But, heare his Logicke, he will prove There is no buſineſſe, but to be in love. The words of Sport, my Lords, and courſe. Your Ladyes yet, will not thinke worſe Of Love for this: they ſhall command My Bow, my Quiver, and my Hand. What, here to ſtand and kill the Flies? Alas, thy ſervice they deſpiſe. One Beauty here, hath in her eyes, More ſhafts then from thy bow o're flew, Or that poore quiver knew. Theſe Dames, They need not Love's, they have Natures flames: I ſee the Beauty, that you ſo report.