Fletcher, Phineas · published 1631 · first performed or written 1615 [Mar 13] (Annals) pastoral · at University unassigned nearest T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma · 534 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
ay but I wonder that in all thy Poems thou never mad'st an Epitaph for thy grandsire that was eaten up by the Cyclops. Ah Scrocca I prithee do not ming my grandsire, thou'lt spoil my poetry presently; those hungry side slops; they eat him up crust and crumb, and then killed him too and that which grieves me most: he never sent me word who it was that bit of's head, yet faith, one draught more and have at him. Nay if one draught will serve, he shall never starve for an Epitaph. So: it's coming I have it Scrocca. Here lies Cancrone's grandsire, who sans boat. Sands wind, sans seas sailed down the Cyclops throat. Here lies? Why will you grave an Epitaph on the Cyclops belly? I'm sure he lies yonder. Mass thou sayst true, but all our late writers begin so. Well sir will you walk home and warm your poetical vain at the kitchen fire. Yes I care not if I do, for I shall ne'er be well till I have got the chimney corner over my head. Farewell ye rocks and seas, I think ye'll show it That Sicelie affords a water-Poet Hah, ha, he; I have laughed myself weary: is't possible? That fire and frost should thus keep house together, Sure age did much mistake him, when it set His snowy badge on his blue riveled chin. Were not his faces furrows filled with snow His hams unstrung his head so straightly bound His eyes so rainy, and his skin so dry He were a pretty youth. What old acquaintance? lie by Mistress a little I'll fish a while, I may chance to catch A cods-head; I'll stand and hear them. Did not I tell you we were wrong? sir. methought, we were at land vile soon. I prithee on which hand was the cape of Peloro, When we left Sulla's bandogs. That did belong to thy water office to mark, But sure it stood straight before a little o'th' on side, Right upon the left, and then it left, the right, And turned west by East, and then stood still North, North, By South. Well bold woodcock Without a bias. Come look about you to your land office. I'll hold a ped of oysters the rock stands on yonder side; Look this way: I prithee is not this Circe's rock, I like thy reasons wondrous well it is her rock and her distaff too. I'll spin some thread out of this distaff. Then I swear by Circe's juggling box we come in o' th' wrong side. Look into my poll, canst thou not perceive by the colour of my brains that I have unlaced her knavery? thou know'st Circe's is a plaguy witch. I she did translate a good father of mine into an hog. She with her whisking white wand, has given this rock a box on the ear, & set it one the other side of the country I care not where Circe's dwells, but I am sure we dwell on this side, and we have pushed in the clean contrary way, and what you what, we have leapt through Hell-mouth: O strange how—
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I but I wonder that in all thy Poems thou neuer madst an Epitaph for thy grandsire that was eaten vp by the Cyclops. Ah Scrocca I prethee doe not ming my grand-sire, thou'lt spoile my poetry presently; those hungry side slops; they eate him vp crust and crum, and then kild him too and that which grieues me most: hee neuer sent mee word who it was that bit of's head, yet fayth, one draught more and haue at him. Nay if one draught will serue, he shall neuer starue for an Epitaph. So: it's comming I haue it Scrocca. Here lies Cancrones grandsire, who sans boate. Sands winde, sans seas saild downe the Cyclops throate. Here lies? Why will you graue an Epitaph on the Cyclops belly? Ime sure hee lies yonder. Masse thou sayst true, but all our late writers begin so. Well sir will you walke home and warme your poeticall vaine at the kitchin fire. Yes I care not if I doe, for I shall nere be well till I haue got the chimney corner ouer my head. Farewell ye rockes and seas, I thinke yee'l shw it That Sicelie affords a water-Poet Hah, ha, he; I haue laught my selfe weary: i'st possible? That fire and frost should thus keepe house together, Sure age did much mistake him, when it set His snowie badge on his blew riueld chin. Were not his faces furrowes fild with snow His hams vnstrung his head so straightly bound His eyes so rainy, and his skinne so drie He were a pretty youth. What old acqaintance? lie by Mistris a little I'le fish a while, I may chaunce to catch A Cods-head; Ile stand and heare them. Did not I tell you we were wrong? sir. Me thought, we were at land vile soone. I prethee on which hand was the cape of Peloro, When wee left Syllaes bandogs. That did belong to thy water ofice to marke, But sure it stood straight before a little o'th' on side, Right vpon the left, and then it left, the right, And turned west by East, and then stood still North, North, By South. Well bould woodcocke Wihout a bias. Come looke about you to your land office. I'le hold a ped of oysters the rocke stands on yonder side; Looke this way: I prethee is not this Circe's ocke, I like thy reasons wondrous well it is her rocke and her distaffe too. I'e spin some thred out of this distaffe. Then I sweare by Circes iugling box wee come in o' th' wrong side. Looke into my poll, canst thou not perceiue by the colour of my braines that I haue vnlac't her knauey? thou knowst Cices is a plaguie wich. I she did translate a good father of mine into an hogge. She with her hisking white wand, has giuen this rocke a box ō the ear, & set it one the other side of the country I care not where Circes dwells, but I am sure we dwell on this side, and wee haue pusht in the cleane contrary way, and wat you what, wee haue leapt through Hell-mouth: O strange how—