Hawkins, William · published 1627 · first performed or written 1627 [Feb 6] (Annals) comedy unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 503 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
ANd now methinks my spirits lighter are, My soul more clear, my wits more active far Since I received from grave Musaeus' hand Apollo's benediction for this day. But where is my Amphibius? he promised to overtake me at this morning sacrifice. I hasted not, I did protract till Phoebus (whose swift Chariot no hand can stay) by his visible messenger called for our common duty and devotion. What will he thus leave me alone? And yet even thus alone I am not. Nunquam minus solus quam cum solus. My books and meditations are my companions, that never fail me. With me they walk and talk, with them I rest at home: and other while when I travel abroad and converse with contemplation, how short and easy are the ways? yea, and how safe too? I can fear no the eves: the Muses are my guard. And in very truth, what can the eves rob me of? My purse is light, and so my heart. My true riches treasured up in the cabinet of this breast, no lurching hand by stealth, no robbing rover by force can seize upon. My Father hath no land to leave me. I think his mean estate is the better means of my happiness. This education which he affords me, I take for a more goodly and durable inheritance, then if he could have left me thousands of stocks and acres, without any bringing up in quality other than the gentle vanities of the times. I envy not our spruce gallant Jingle, that now forsooth scorns to be our schoolfellow any longer. Our sable robe is too homely for such gaudy butterflies. But ho Philoponus whither dost thou range? These flies not worth the gazing on would seduce me out of my way. Away ye fluttering moths that fain would eat holes in the muse's robes. Come wise Philosophers, come soul-plying Orators. Nay to you I come; ye are my home, the true centre whereon my circling thoughts do rest. O mellifluous Tully. O streaming overflowing Ovid. O Majestic Virgil. Grave Quintilian. Sententious Isocrates. Virtuous Seneca Plentiful Plutarch. Profound Aristotle. Divine Plato. My solace, my guides, my instructers. O how your words distil into my thirsting soul, like to immortalising Nectar. Where left we last, sweet numbersome Isocrates? O here, where thy lamp burneth bright. {non-Roman} {non-Roman}. Isocrat ad Demonic. This rule he delivers, Think not to walk unseen when thou goest about any wickedness. For, though no man over-spy thee, thine own conscience keeps watch over thee. O the divine power of unbred conscience? Suitable to this is that of Seneca. Quid prodest non habere conscium habenti conscientiam? When Amphibius and I discoursed on this point at our private reading of Seneca, I remember how affectionately he would take the book into his bosom, and hug it, and protest that this one sentence is able to make us honest men. I will seek him out, that we may mutually kindle the sparks of conscience in our breasts,
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)
ANd now me thinkes my spirits lighter are, My soule more cleare, my wits more actiue far Since I receiu'd from graue Mulaeus hand Apollos benediction for this day. But where is my Amphibius? hee promised to ouertake me at this morning sacrifice. I hasted not, I did protract till Phoebus (whose swist Chariot no hand can stay) by his visible messenger call'd for our common duty and deuotion. What will he thus leaue me alone? And yet euen thus alone I am not. Nunquam minus solus quam cum solus. My bookes and meditations are my companions, that neuer faile me. With me they walke and talke, with them I rest at home: and other while when I trauell abroad and conuerse with contemplation, how short and easie are the wayes? yea, and how safe too? I can feare no the eues: the Muses are my guard. And in very truth, what can the eues rob me of? My purse is light, and so my heart. My true riches treasured vp in the cabinet of this breast, no lurching hand by stealth, no robbing rouer by force can seise vpon. My Father hath no land to leaue me. I thinke his meane estate is the better meanes of my happinesse. This education which he astoods me, I take for a more goodly and durable inheritance, then if he could haue left mee thousands of stockes and acres, without any bringing vp in qualitie other then the gentle vanities of the times. I enuy not our spruce gallant Gingle, that now forsooth scornes to be our schoole-fellow any longer. Our sable robe is too homely for such gaudy butterflies. But ho Philoponus whither dost thou range? These flyes not worth the gazing on would seduce me out of my way. Away ye flutering mothes that fain would eate holes in the Muses robes. Come wi Philosophers, come soule-plying Orators. Nay to you I come; ye are my home, the true centre whereon my circling thoughts doe rest. O mellifluous Tully. O streaming ouerflowing Ouid. O Maiestique Virgil. Graue Quintillian. Sententious Isocrates. Vertuous Sentta Plentifull Plutarch. Profound Aristotle. Diuine Plato. My solace, my guides, my instructers. O how your words distill into my thirsting soule, like to immortalizing Nectar. Where left we last, sweet numbersome Isocrates? O here, where thy lampe burneth bright. . Isocrat ad Demonic. This rule he deliuers, Thinke not to walke vnseene when thou goest about any wickednesse. For, though no man ouerspye thee, thine owne conscience keepes watch ouer thee. O the diuine power of vnbred conscience? Sutable to this is that of Seneca. Quid prodest non habere conscium habenti conscientiam? When Amphibius and I discoursed on this point at our priuate reading of Seneca, I remember how affectionately he would take the booke into his bosome, and hugge it, and protest that this one sentence is able to make vs honest men. I will seeke him out, that we may mutually kindle the sparkes of conscience in our breasts,