London's Tempe, or The Field of Happiness · chunk 1 of 3
Dekker, Thomas · published 1629 · first performed or written 1629 [Oct 29] (Annals) civic play; pageant unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 563 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
THus Mounted, hither comes the King of waves, Whose voice Charms roughest Billows into slaves, Whose Foot, treads down their necks with as much Ease As in my shelly Coach, I rein up These. Loud Echoes called me from my glittering Throne To see the Noble Thamesis;— A Son To this my Queen and Me (〈◊〉) whose Ear ne'er jeweld up such Music as sounds Here. For, our unfaddomd World, Roars out with None But Horrid Sea-fights, Navies Overthrown, Islands halfe-drownd in Blood, Pirates pell mell, Turk's slavish tugging Oars, The Dunkirks Hell, The Dutchmans' Thunder, And the Spaniards Lightning, To whom, the Sulphur's Breath gives Heat & Heightening, O! These are the Dire Tunes my Consort sings, But here! old Thame out shines the Beams of Kings. This City Adds New Glories to Ioues Court. And to All you, who to this Hall resort, This 〈◊〉 via (as a Path) is given, Being P●l●d with Pearl, as that with Stars in heaven I could (to ●w●ll my train) Becon the Rhine. (But the wild Boar ha' tusked up his vine.) I could Swift Volga Call, whose curled head lies On seven 〈◊〉 pillows, (But, in merchandizes The Russian, him employs)- I could to these Call Ganges, Nilus, long haired Euphrates, Tagus whose golden Hands clasp Lisbon walls, Him could I call too, But what need these calls? Were they all here, they would weep out there eyes, Mad that new Troy's high towers on tiptoe rise To hit Heaven's Roof: Mad, to see Thames this day (For all his age) in wanton windings Play, Before his, new Grave Praetor, and before These senators, Best fathers of the poor. That Grand Canale, where (stately) once a year A Fleet of bridal Gondoletts appear, To marry with a golden Ring, (That's Hurled, Into the sea) That minion of the world Venice to Neptune,- A poor Lantscip is, To these full Bravereiss of Thamesis. Go therefore up to Caeasars' Court,- And claim What honours there are left to Campe-bels name As by disent, whilst we tow up a tide Which shall run sweeting up by you barges side: That done, Time shall Oceanus Name Enrol, For guarding You to London's Capitol. Brave Jron! Brave Hammer! from your sound, The Art of Music has her Ground, On the Anuile, Thou keep'st Time, Thy Knick-a-knock is a smith's Best Chime, Yet Thwick a-Thwack, Thwick, Thwac-a-Thwac-Thwac, Make our Brawny sinews Crack, Then Pit a-pat-pat, pit-a-pat-pat, Till thickest bars be beaten flat. We shoe the Horses of the Sun, Harness the Dragons of the Moon, Forge Cupid's Quiver, Bow, and Arrows, And our Dame's Coach, that's drawn with Sparrows. Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. Ioues Roaring Cannons, and his Rammers, We beat out with our Lemnian Hammers, Mars his Gauntlet, Helm and Spear, And Gorgon Shield are all made here. Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. The Grate which (shut) the Day out-barres, Those golden studs which nail the stars, The Globes-case, and the Axletree, Who can Hammer these but We. Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. A Warmng-pan to heat Earth's bed, Lying i'th' frozen Zone half-dead, Hobnails to serve the Man i'th' Moon, And Sparrow-bils to clout Pan's shoon. Whose work but ours? Till thwic-a-thwack, &c, Venus Kettles, Pots and Pens, We make, or else she Brawls and Bannes, tongues, Shovels, Andirons have their places, Else she scratches all our faces. Till thick a-thwack, etc.
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)
THus Mounted, hither comes the King of waues, Whoſe voyce Charmes rougheſt Billows into ſlaues, Whoſe Foote, treades downe their necks with as much Eaſe As in my ſhelly Coach, I reyne vp Theſe. Lowd Ecchoes cald me from my glittering Throne To ſee the Noble Thameſis;— A Sonne To this my Queene and Me () whoſe Eare Ne're Ieweld vp ſuch Muſick as ſounds Here. For, our vnfaddomd World, Roares out with None But Horrid Sea-fights, Nauies Ouerthrowne, Ilands halfe-drownd in Bloud, Pyrates pell mell, Turkes ſlauiſh tugging Oares, The Dunkerks Hell, The Dutchmans Thunder, And the Spaniards Lightning, To whom, the Sulphures Breath giues Heate & Heightning, O! Theſe are the Dire Tunes my Conſort ſings, But here! old Thame out ſhines the Beames of Kings. This Citty Addes New Glories to Ioues Court. And to All you, who to this Hall reſort, This via (as a Path) is giuen, Being Pld with Pearle, as that with Starres in heauen I could (to wll my trayne) Becon the Rhine. (But the wylde Boare ha tusked vp his vine.) I could Swif Volga Call, whoſe curld head lies On ſeauen pillowes, (But, in merchandizs The Ruſſian, him imployes)-I could to theis Call Ganges, Nilus, long haird Euphrates, Tagus whoſe golden Hands claſpe Lisbone walles, Him could J call too, But what neede theis calles? Were they all here, they would weepe out there eyes, Madde that new Troys high towers on tiptoe rize To hit Heauens Roofe: Madde, to ſee Thames this day (For all his age) in wanton windinges Play, Before his, new Graue Praetor, and before Theis ſenators, Best fathers of the poore. That Grand Canale, where (ſtately) once a yeare A Fleete of bridall Gondoletts appeare, To marry with a golden Ring, (Thats Hurld, Into the ſea) That minion of the world Venice to Neptune,-A poore Lantſcip is, To theſe full Brauereis of Thameſis. Goe therefore vp to Caeaſars Court,-And clayme What honors there are left to Campe-bels name As by diſent, whilſt we tow vp a tyde Which ſhall ronne ſweating vp by you barges ſide: That done, Time ſhall Oceanus Name Inroll, For guarding You to Londons Capitoll. BRaue Jron! Braue Hammer! from your ſound, The Art of Muſicke has her Ground, On the Anuile, Thou keep'st Time, Thy Knick-a-knock is a ſmithes Beſt Chyme, Yet Thwick a-Thwack, Thwick, Thwac-a-Thwac-Thwac, Make our Brawny ſinewes Crack, Then Pit a-pat-pat, pit-a-pat-pat, Till thickeſt barres be beaten flat. We ſhooe the Horſes of the Sunne, Harneſſe the Dragons of the Moone, Forge Cupids Quiuer, Bow, and Arrowes, And our Dames Coach, thats drawne with Sparrowes. Till thwick-a-thwack, &c. Ioues Roaring Cannons, and his Rammers, We beate out with our Lemnian Hammers, Mars his Gauntlet, Helme and Speare, And Gorgon Shield are all made here. Till thwick-a-thwack, &c. The Grate which (ſhut) the Day out-barres, Thoſe golden ſtuddes which naile the ſtarres, The Globes-caſe, and the Axletree, Who can Hammer theſe but Wee. Till thwick-a-thwack, &c. A Warming-panne to heate Earth's bedde, Lying ith frozen Zone halfe-dead, Hob-nailes to ſerue the Man ith Moone, And Sparrow-bils to cloute Pan's ſhoone. Whoſe worke but ours? Till thwic-a-thwack, &c, Venus Kettles, Pots and Pennes, We make, or elſe ſhe Brawles and Bannes, Tonges, Shouels, Andirons haue their places, Elſe ſhee ſcratches all our faces. Till thick a-thwack, &c.