Shirley, James · published 1632 · first performed or written 1632 [licensed for stage, Jan 10] (Annals) comedy · King's Revels Company (?); Prince Charles's Men (second) (?) · Salisbury Court unassigned nearest T16 Gallantry: ladies, lordships and complim · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T16: lady, madam, gentleman, lordship, ladies, honour, mistress, sweet, court, servant.
My name is Caperwit. Y'ave a dancing Name, I do not think, but you Write all the corantoes. Wit! wit by Mercury! I shall love thy daughters the Better for that: do they affect Poetry? They read nothing else. Then they are wise; 'tis a seraphic contemplation; I'll furnish them with the most excellent Poems— Of your own composition? That is intimated, when I say excellent; Your daughters shall be judge, let 'em vouchsafe A subject to my muse, and prove the height Of my imaginations. They are entering. Thus breaks Aurora from the Eastern hills, And chaseth night away, let me salute Your rosy cheek— Good morrow to you Sir, there is but one Aurora, What do y' make my Sister pray? She is the Sun itself. No Sir, I am the daughter of that Gentleman, No sun I'll assure you. Whose golden beams do gild this lower world, Transfixing hearts, converting ribs of ice Into a flame. What buffoonery is this? let's hear his speech out, and my Sister be the Sun, we shall have day enough: a pretty Pageant! Prithee do not mind him. Virgins, that equal all the graces, and Only in this, that you are two, beneath them. The miracles of beauty! for whose eyes The Persians might forsake their god, and pay Religious honour to this flame— what's he? A Gentleman, that would endear himself. Has he any fancies in him? Can he ravish The Ladies? Ravish Ladies Sir? that's a dangerous matter. How many raptures does he talk a day? Is he transported with Poetic rage? When was he styled Imperial wit? who are The Prince Electors in his Monarchy? Can he like Celtic Hercules, with chains Of his divine tongue, draw the gallant tribe Through every street, whilst the grave senator Points at him; as he walks in triumph, and Doth wish, with half his wealth, he might be young, To spend it all in Sack, to hear him talk Eternal Sonnets to his Mistress? ha? Who loves not verse is damned— How Sir? This Gentleman dares fight. Who will fight with him? You do not know his disposition. But I will, Sir; I have a great ambition to be of your acquaintance, I hope you will excuse these fancies of mine, though I were borne a Poet I will study to be your servant in Prose, yet if now and then my brains do sparkle, I cannot help it, raptures will out, my Motto is Quicquid conabor, the midwife wrapped my head up in a sheet of Sir Philip Sidney that inspired me, and my nurse descended from old Chaucer, my conversation has been among the furies, and if I meet you in Apollo, a pottle of the best Ambrosia in the house, shall wait upon you. They are here Sir, at full view. What's he? A Knight I'll assure you. Does he come A wooing to the Ladies? After the Spanish fashion— afar off.
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)
My name is Caperwit. Y'ave a dancing Name, I doe not thinke, but you Write all the Coranto's. Wit! wit by Mercury! I shall loue thy daughters the Better for that: doe they affect Poetry? They reade nothing else. Then they are wise; 'tis a Seraphicke contemplation▪ I'le furnish them with the most excellent Poems— Of your owne composition? That is intimated, when I say excellent; Your daughters shall be judge, let 'm vouchsafe A subject to my muse, and prove the height Of my imaginations. They are entring. Thus breakes Aurora from the Easterne hills, And chaseth night away, let me salute Your rosie cheeke— Good morrow to you Sir, there is but one Aurora, What doe y' make my Sister pray? She is the Sun it selfe. No Sir, I am the daughter of that Gentleman, No sunne Ile assure you. Whose golden beames doe gild this lower world, Transfixing hearts, converting ribs of ice Into a flame. What buffonry is this? Lets heare his speech out, and my Sister be the Sunne, Wee shall have day enough: a pretty Pageant! Prethee doe not minde him. Virgins, that equall all the graces, and Only in this, that you are two, beneath them. The miracles of beauty! for whose eyes The Persians might forsake their god, and pay Religious honour to this flame—whats he? A Gentleman, that would endeare himselfe. Has he any fancies in him? Can he ravish The Ladies? Ravish Ladies Sir? that's a dangerous matter. How many raptures does he talke a day? Is he transported with Poeticke rage? When was he stil'd Imperiall wit? who are The Prince Electors in his Monarchy? Can he like Celtick Hercules, with chaines Of his divine tongue, draw the gallant tribe Through every streete, whilst the grave senator Points at him; as he walkes in triumph, and Doth wish, with halfe his wealth, he might be young, To spend it all in Sack, to heare him talke Eternall Sonnets to his Mistris? ha? Who loves not verse is damn'd— How Sir? This Gentleman dares fight. Who will fight with him? You doe not know his disposition. But I will, Sir; I have a great ambition to be of your acquaintance, I hope you will excuse these fancies of mine, though I were borne a Poet I will study to be your servant in Prose, yet if now and then my braines doe sparkle, I cannot helpe it, raptures will out, my Motto is Quicquid conabor ▪ the midwife wrapt my head up in a sheet of Sir Philip Sidney that inspired me, and my nurse descended from old Chaucer, my conversation has beene among the furies, and if I meete you in Apollo, a pottle of the best Ambrosia in the house, shall waite upon you. They are here Sir, at full view. What's he? A Knight Ile assure you. Does he come A wooing to the Ladies? After the Spanish fashion— A farre off.