Randolph, Thomas · published 1632 · first performed or written 1632 [Mar 20] (Annals) comedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
We must divide: We that serve great men have no other shifts To thrive ourselves but gelding our Lords gifts. Now I am rich indeed, this is true treasure. Ha! has Melpomene ta'en cold of late, That you are silent, my Parnassian beagles? Is Clio dumb? or has Apollo's Jews-trump By sad disaster lost her melodious tongue? Your praise all tongues desire to speak: but some, Nay all I fear, for want of art grow dumb: The harp of Orpheus blushes for to sing, And sweet Amphion's voice hath cracked a string. A witty solecism reward the error! harp and sing, voice and string. Give me a breath of thunder, let me speak Sonorous accents, till their clamours break Rocks with the noise obstreperous. I will warble Such bouncing notes shall cleave obdurate marble Upon mount Caucasus heavens knocking head, Boreas shall blow my trumpet, till I spread Thy fame, grand Patron of the thrice three sisters, Till envies ears shall hear it and have blisters. O rare close, a high sublime conceit! For this I'll sheathe thee in a new serge scabbard Blade of the fount Pegasean. What an honour Will our blood come to!— I have satisfied For all the Orphans, Widows, and what others My sacred hunger hath devoured. Ballio Bless him with twenty drachmas— yet forbear: Money may spoil his Poetry. Give's some wine, Here is a whetstone both for wit and valour. A health to all my beadsmen of the sword. This will engage the men of arms to fight. This to the Muses, and their threadbare tribe. Thou dost engage the learned troops to write. Go sons of Mars, with young Apollo's brood, And usher in my Venus: wine hath warmed My blood, and waked it to an itch of sporting. Some twenty ages hence 'twill be a question Which of the two the world will reverence more: You for a thriving father, or Asotus So liberal a son. Good, Ballio, good: But which will they prefer? They cannot, Sir, But most admire your fist, which gripped so much That made his hand so open. Gracious stars, How blessed shall I be twenty ages hence! Some twenty ages hence. You shall be called A doting Coxcomb twenty ages hence. HOw bright and glorious are the beams my star Darts from her eye! Lead up, my Queen of beauty! But in a softer march, sound a retreat: Lead on again, I'll meet her in that state The god of war puts on, when he salutes The Cyprian Queen— these that were once the postures Of horrid battles, are become the muster Of love and beauty. Say sweet brace of Mercuries, Is she th'— Olympic or the Paphian goddess? Where are you Sir, where are you? In Elysium, in Elysium. This is no goddess of th'— Olympic hall Nor may you her of Neptune's issue call. For she nor Siren is nor Amphitrite. Nor wood-nymph that in forest takes delight. Nor is she Muse. Nor Grace.
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)
We must divide: We that serve great men have no other shifts To thrive our selves but guelding our Lords guifts. Now I am rich indeed, this is true treasure. Ha! has Melpomene ta'ne cold of late, That you are silent, my Parnassian beagles? Is Clio dumbe? or has Apollos Jewes-trump By sad disaster lost her melodious tongue? Your praise all tongues desire to speak: but some, Nay all I fear, for want of art grow dumbe: The harp of Orpheus blushes for to sing, And sweet Amphions voice hath crack't a string. A witty solecisme reward the errour! harp and sing, voice and string. Give me a breath of thunder, let me speak Sonorous accents, till their clamours break Rocks with the noise obstreperous. I will warble Such bounsing notes shall cleave obdurate marble Upon mount Caucasus heavens knocking head, Boreas shall blow my trumpet, till I spread Thy fame, grand Patron of the thrice three sisters, Till envies eares shall heare it and have blisters. O rare close, a high sublime conceit! For this I'le sheath thee in a new serge scabbard Blade of the fount Pegasean. What an honour Will our bloud come to!—I have satisfied For all the Orphanes, Widows, and what others My sacred hunger hath devour'd. Ballio Blesse him with twentie drachmes—yet forbeare: Money may spoyl his Poetry. Give's some wine, Here is a whetstone both for wit and valour. A health to all my beads-men of the sword. This will ingage the men of arms to fight. This to the Muses, and their threed-bare tribe. Thou dost ingage the learned troops to write. Go sonnes of Mars, with young Apollos brood, And usher in my Venus: wine hath warm'd My bloud, and wak'd it to an itch of sporting. Some twentie ages hence 'twill be a question Which of the two the world will reverence more: You for a thriving father, or Asotus So liberall a sonne. Good, Ballio, good: But which will they preferre? They cannot, Sir, But most admire your fist, which grip'd so much That made his hand so open. Gracious starres, How blest shall I be twentie ages hence! Some twentie ages hence. You shall be call'd A doting Coxcombe twentie ages hence. HOw bright and glorious are the beams my starre Darts from her eye! Lead up, my Queen of beauty! But in a softer march, sound a retreat: Lead on again, I'le meet her in that state The god of warre puts on, when he salutes The Cyprian Queen—these that were once the postures Of horrid battells, are become the muster Of love and beauty. Say sweet brace of Mercuries, Is she th'—Olympique or the Paphian goddesse? Where are you Sir, where are you? In Elysium, in Elysium. This is no goddesse of th'—Olympique hall Nor may you her of Neptunes issue call. For she nor Siren is nor Amphitrite. Nor wood-nymph that in forrest takes delight. Nor is she Muse. Nor Grace.