Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Now I hope you have railed yourself out of breath, And therefore I may now have time to speak: Thus 'tis, dear friend Acanthus, I confess That once I loved the Lady Eglantine, Whose rare endowments both of art and nature, Well corresponding with high birth and fortune, Did moderately attract my sincere love, Which love conspiring with a strong desire, To see the Customs of some foreign Nations, And know the manners of people far remote, Made me to greet the Princely Dame With a personal visitation. Then my indulgent stars did me advise, For to suspend my suit: whose Counsel I obeyed. But trust me, friend, thou wert too much mistaken, To think that love had scorched or singed so much The wings of reason; that I must needs fall, And perish in the furnace of despair. Thou art a bad constructer of my thoughts, If that thou think'st 'tis love which makes me sad: Yea, thou, ofttimes, dost take thy marks amiss, To think me sad; perhaps, whenas my mind (Upraised above the sphere of terrene things) Is ravished with Celestial Contemplation; For earthly passion hath no power at all To work upon an elevated soul. Passions are stars to lower orbs confined; Scorching an earthly, not a heavenly mind. Yet am I not so much a Stoic, or a Stock, To plume the pinions of th'immortal soul, Who while she's Cloistered in this Cell of Clay, Moves with the wings of the affections: But lest she, like to heedless Icarus, Should soar too high a pitch; or like young Phaeton, Should shape her Course too low, Iove hath appointed Wise Virtue for to regulate her flight. Of these affections, love the Empress is; Who, while she stands submiss to reason's lore, Doth keep the Fabric of the little world in frame. Love is the genial goddess, the Lucina Which doth produce each honourable achievement, Which this true axiom evidently proves, Nobilitas sub amore iacet. Had not the spriteful flames of love, egged on That Theban Kill-crow mighty Hercules, To brave adventures; he, perhaps, had died As much inglorious as did base Thersites. Had not the fair Andromache beheld, From Trojan Towers, Hector's valiant acts Among the Greeks, amid the Phrygian fields; The gallant Dames of Troy then might, perchance, Most justly have preferred Achilles far before him. 'tis this heroical passion that incends The sparks of honour in each noble mind; Making dull sluggards study industry; And animating each unlearned head To toil in Arts and liberal Sciences, Even to the high degree of rare proficience. Then cease Acanthus with thy lawless tongue, True love's Condition to malign or wrong. Thou zealous patron of the winged Boy, Well hast thou pleaded thy blind Archers Case; Pray Iove thou mayst deserve a lusty fee For this Herculean labour of thy tongue. Surcease these malapert invectives, friend, Cupid is armed with fire and arrows keen, To be avenged on those that shall him spleen.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Now I hope you have rail'd your self out of breath, And therefore I may now have time to speake: Thus 'tis, deare friend Acanthus, I confesse That once I lov'd the Lady Eglantine, Whose rare endowments both of art and nature, Well corresponding with high birth and fortune, Did moderately attract my sincere love, Which love conspiring with a strong desire, To see the Customes of some forraine Nations, And know the manners of people farre remote, Made me to greet the Princely Dame With a personall visitation. Then my indulgent starres did me advise, For to suspend my suit: whose Counsell I obey'd. But trust me, friend, thou wert too much mistaken, To thinke that love had scorch'd or sing'd so much The wings of reason; that I must needs fall, And perish in the fornace of despaire. Thou art a bad constructer of my thoughts, If that thou think'st 'tis love which makes me sad: Yea, thou, oft-times, dost take thy marks amisse, To thinke me sad; perhaps, when as my minde (Uprais'd above the sphere of terrene things) Is ravish'd with Celestiall Contemplation; For earthly passion hath no power at all To worke upon an elevated soule. Passions are starres to lower orbs confin'd; Scorching an earthly, not a heavenly mind. Yet am I not so much a Stoicke, or a Stocke, To plume the pinions of th'immortall soule, Who while she's Cloyster'd in this Cell of Clay, Moves with the wings of the affections: But lest she, like to heedlesse Icarus, Should soare too high a pitch; or like young Phaeton, Should shape her Course too low, Iove hath appointed Wise Vertue for to regulate her flight. Of these affections, love the Empresse is; Who, while she stands submisse to reasons lore, Doth keepe the Fabricke of the little world in frame. Love is the geniall goddesse, the Lucina Which doth produce each honourable atchievement, Which this true axiome evidently proves, Nobilitas sub amore iacet. Had not the spritefull flames of love, egg'd on That Thehan Kilcrow mighty Hercules, To brave adventures; he, perhaps, had dy'd As much inglorious as did base Thersites. Had not the faire Andromache beheld, From Troian Towers, Hectors valiant acts Among the Greeks, amid the Phrygian fields; The gallant Dames of Troy then might, perchance, Most justly have preferr'd Achilles farre before him. Tis this heroicall passion that incends The sparkes of honour in each noble minde; Making dull sluggards study industry; And animating each unlearned head To toyle in Arts and liberall Sciences, Even to the high degree of rare proficience. Then cease Acanthus with thy lawlesse tongue, True loves Condition to maligne or wrong. Thou zealous patron of the winged Boy, Well hast thou pleaded thy blind Archers Case; Pray Iove thou maist deserve a lusty fee For this Herculean labour of thy tongue. Surcease these malapert invectives, friend, Cupid is arm'd with fire and arrowes keene, To be avenc'd on those that shall him spleene.