Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1626 [Feb] (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 474 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
This fury shows, if there were nothing else! And 'tis divine! I shall for ever hereafter, Admire the wisdom of a Cook! And we, Sir! O, how my Princess draws me, with her looks, And hales me in, as eddies draw in boats, Or strong Charybdis ships, that sail too near The shelves of Love! The tides of your two eyes! Wind of your breath, are such as suck in all, That do approach you! Who hath changed my servant? Yourself, who drink my blood up with your beams, As doth the Sun, the Sea! Pecunia shines Moore in the world than he: and makes it Spring Where e'er she favours!' please her but to show Her melting wrists, or bore her ivory hands, She catches still! her smiles they are love's fetters! Her breasts his apples! her teats Strawberries! Where Cupid (were he present now) would cry Far well my mother's milk, here's sweeter Nectar! Help me to praise Pecunia, Gentlemen: She's your Princess, lend your wits, A Lady, The Graces taught to move! The Hours did nurse! Whose lips are the instructions of all Lovers! Her eyes their lights, and rivals to the Stars! A voice, as if that Harmony still spoke! And polished skin, whiter than Venus' foot! Young Hebe's neck, or Juno's arms! A hair, Large as the Mornings, and her breath as sweet, As meadows after rain, and but new mown! Leda might yield unto her, for a face! Hermione for breasts! Flora, for cheeks! And Helen for a mouth! Kiss, kiss 'em, Princess. The pearl doth strive in whiteness, with her neck, But loseth by it: here the Snow thaws Snow; One frost resolves another! O, she has A front too slippery to be looked upon! And glances that beguile the seers eyes! Kiss, kiss again, what says my man o' war? I say, she's more, than Fame can promise' of her. A Theme, that's overcome with her own matter! Praise is struck blind, and deaf, and dumb with her! She doth astonish Commendation! Well pumped i'faith old Sailor: kiss him too: Though he be a slug. What says my Poet-sucker! He's chewing his Muse's cud, I do see by him. I have almost done, I want but e'en to finish. That's the ' ill luck of all his works still. What? To begin many works, but finish none; How does he do his Mistress work? Imperfect. I cannot think he finisheth that. Let's hear▪ It is a Madrigal, I affect that kind Of Poem, much. And thence you ha' the name. It is his Rose. He can make nothing else I made it to the tune the Fiddlers played, That we all liked so well. Good, read it, read it. The Sun is father of all metals, you know, Silver, and gold. I, leave your Prologues, say!
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)
This fury ſhewes, if there were nothing elſe! And 'tis diuine! I ſhall for euer hereafter, Admire the wiſedome of a Cooke! And we, Sir! O, how my Princeſſe drawes me, with her lookes, And hales me in, as eddies draw in boats, Or ſtrong Charybdis ſhips, that ſaile too neere The ſhelues of Loue! The tydes of your two eyes! Wind of your breath, are ſuch as ſucke in all, That doe approach you! Who hath chang'd my ſeruant? Your ſelfe, who drinke my blood vp with your beames, As doth the Sunne, the Sea! Pecunia ſhines More in the world then he: and makes it Spring Where e'r ſhe fauours! 'pleaſe her but to ſhow Her melting wreſts, or bare her yuorie hands, She catches ſtill! her ſmiles they are Loue's fetters! Her breſts his apples! her teats Stawberries! Where Cupid (were he preſent now) would cry Fare well my mothers milke, here's ſweeter Nectar! Helpe me to praiſe Pecunia, Gentlemen: She's your Princeſſe, lend your wits, A Lady, The Graces taught to moue! The Houres did nurſe! Whoſe lips are the inſtructions of all Louers! Her eyes their lights, and riualls to the Starres! A voyce, as if that Harmony ſtill ſpake! And poliſh'd skinne, whiter then Venus foote! Young Hebes necke, or Iunoe's armes! A haire, Large as the Mornings, and her breath as ſweete, As meddowes after raine, and but new mowne! Laeda might yeeld vnto her, for a face! Hermione for breſts! Flora, for cheekes! And Helen for a mouth! Kiſſe, kiſſe 'hem, Princeſſe. The pearle doth ſtriue in whiteneſſe, with her necke, But loſeth by it: here the Snow thawes Snow; One froſt reſolues another! O, ſhe has A front too ſlippery to be look't vpon! And glances that beguile the ſeers eyes! Kiſſe, kiſſe againe, what ſaies my man o' warre? I ſay, ſhe's more, then Fame can promiſe of her. A Theame, that's ouercome with her owne matter! Praiſe is ſtrucke blind, and deafe, and dumbe with her! Shee doth aſtoniſh Commendation! Well pumpt i'faith old Sailor: kiſſe him too: Though he be a ſlugge. What ſaies my Poet-ſucker! He's chewing his Muſes cudde, I doe ſee by him. I haue almoſt done, I want but e'ne to finiſh. That's the 'ill luck of all his workes ſtill. What? To beginne many works, but finiſh none; How does he do his Miſtreſſe work? Imperfect. I cannot thinke he finiſheth that. Let's heare▪ It is a Madrigall, I affect that kind Of Poem, much. And thence you ha' the name. It is his Roſe. He can make nothing elſe I made it to the tune the Fidlers play'd, That we all lik'd ſo well. Good, read it, read it. The Sunne is father of all mettalls, you know, Siluer, and gold. I, leaue your Prologues, ſay!