Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1616 [Oct-Nov (?)] (Annals) comedy · King's Men T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.87 · 518 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Not, my tuneful Mistress? Than, surely, Love hath none; nor Beauty any; Nor Nature violenced, in both these: With all whose gentle tongues you speak, at once. I thought I had enough removed, already, That scruple from your breast, and left ye all reason; When, through my morning's perspective I showed you A man so above excuse, as he is the cause, Why any thing is to be done upon him: And nothing called an injury, misplaced. I rather, now had hope, to show you how Love By his accesses, grows more natural: And, what was done, this morning, with such force Was but devised to serve the present, than. That since Love hath the honour to approach These sister-swelling breasts; and touch this soft, And rosy hand; he hath the skill to draw Their Nectar forth, with kissing; and could make Moore wanton salts, from this brave promontory, Down to this valley, than the nimble Roe; Can play the hopping Sparrow, 'bout these nets; And sporting Squirrel in these crisped groves; Bury himself in every Silkworms kell, Is here vnrauelled; run into the snare, Which every hair is, cast into a curl, To catch a Cupid flying: Bath himself In milk, and roses, here, and dry him, there; Warm his cold hands, to play with this smooth, round, And well turned chin, as with the Billiard ball; Roll on these lips, the banks of love, and there At once both plant, and gather kisses. Lady, Shall I, with what I have made to day here, call All sense to wonder, and all faith to sign The mysteries revealed in your form? And will Love pardon me the blasphemy I uttered, when I said, a glass could speak This beauty, or that fools had power to judge it? Do but look, on her eyes! They do light— All that love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair! it is bright, As love's star, when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smother, Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face; As alone, there triumphs to the life, All the gain, all the good, of the elements strife! Have you seen but a bright Lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the Snow, Before the soil hath smuched it? Have you felt the wool o' the Beaver? Or Swans down, ever? Or, have smelled o' the bud o' the Briar? Or the Nard i' the fire? Or, have tasted the bag o' the Bee? O, so white! O, so soft! O, so sweet is she! IS she so, Sir? and, I will keep her so. If I know how, or can: that wit of man Will do't, I'll go no farther. At this window She shall no more be buzzed at. Take your leave on't. If you be sweet meats, wedlock, or sweet flesh, All's one: I do not love this hum about you. A fly-blown wife is not so proper, In: For you, Sr, look to hear from me.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
No, my tune-full Miſtreſſe? Then, ſurely, Loue hath none; nor Beauty any; Nor Nature violenced, in both theſe: With all whoſe gentle tongues you ſpeake, at once. I thought I had inough remou'd, already, That ſcruple from your breſt, and left yo' all reaſon; When, through my mornings perſpectiue I ſhewd you A man ſo aboue excuſe, as he is the cauſe, Why any thing is to be done vpon him: And nothing call'd an iniury, miſ-plac'd. I' rather, now had hope, to ſhew you how Loue By his acceſſes, growes more naturall: And, what was done, this morning, with ſuch force Was but deuis'd to ſerue the preſent, then. That ſince Loue hath the honour to approach Theſe ſiſter-ſwelling breſts; and touch this ſoft, And roſie hand; hee hath the skill to draw Their Nectar forth, with kiſſing; and could make More wanton ſalts, from this braue promontory, Downe to this valley, then the nimble Roe; Could play the hopping Sparrow, 'bout theſe nets; And ſporting Squirell in theſe criſped groues; Bury himſelfe in euery Silke-wormes kell, Is here vnrauell'd; runne into the ſnare, Which euery hayre is, caſt into a curle, To catch a Cupid flying: Bath himſelfe In milke, and roſes, here, and dry him, there; Warme his cold hands, to play with this ſmooth, round, And well torn'd chin, as with the Billyard ball; Rowle on theſe lips, the banks of loue, and there At once both plant, and gather kiſſes. Lady, Shall I, with what I haue made to day here, call All ſenſe to wonder, and all faith to ſigne The myſteries reuealed in your forme? And will Loue pardon mee the blaſphemy I vtter'd, when I ſaid, a glaſſe could ſpeake This beauty, or that fooles had power to iudge it? Doe but looke, on her eyes! They doe light— All that Loue's world comprizeth! Doe but looke on her hayre! it is bright, As Loue's ſtarre, when it riſeth! Doe but marke, her fore-head's ſmoother, Then words that ſooth her! And from her arched browes, ſuch a grace Sheds it ſelfe through the face; As alone, there triumphs to the life, All the gaine, all the good, of the elements ſtrife! Haue you ſeene but a bright Lilly grow, Before rude hands haue touch'd it? Haue you mark'd but the fall of the Snow, Before the ſoyle hath ſmuch'd it? Haue you felt the wooll o' the Beuer? Or Swans downe, euer? Or, haue ſmelt o' the bud o' the Bryer? Or the Nard i' the fire? Or, haue taſted the bag o' the Bee? O, ſo white! O, ſo ſoft! O, ſo ſweet is ſhee! IS ſhee ſo, Sir? and, I will keepe her ſo. If I know how, or can: that wit of man Will doe't, I'll goe no farther. At this windo' She ſhall no more be buz'd at. Take your leaue on't. If you be ſweet meates, wedlock, or ſweet fleſh, All's one: I doe not loue this hum about you. A flye-blowne wife is not ſo proper, In: For you, Sr, looke to heare from mee.