Selected quad for the lemma: sense_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
sense_n	wit_n	worthy_a	write_v	29	3	4.9547	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A76292	Poems: by Francis Beaumont, Gent. Viz. The hermaphrodite. The remedy of love. Elegies. Sonnets, with other poems.	Beaumont, Francis, 1584-1616.; Ovid, 43 B.C.-17 or 18 A.D. Metamorphoses. English. Selections.	1653 (1653)	Wing B1602; Thomason E1236_3; ESTC R208894	79,281	207

A thing not fit for gravity For theirs are foule and hardly three Pas Ha ha ha Bas Ho ho ho. Pas Democritus thou ancient Fleerer Now I misse thy laugh and ha since Bas There you nam'd the famous Jeerer That ever jeer'd in Rome or Athens Pas Ha ha ha Bas Ho ho ho. Pas How brave lives he that keeps a foole Although the rate be deeper Pas But he that is his own foole sir Does live a great deale cheaper Pas Sure I shall burst burst quite breake thou art so witty Bas 'T is rare to breake at Court for that belongs to th' Citty Pas Ha ha my spleene is almost worn to the last laughter Bas O keepe a corner for a friend a jest may come hereafter The Prologue to the Tamer Tamed LAdies to you in whose defence and right Fletchers brave Muse prepar'd her selfe to fight A battle without bloud 't was well fought too The Victorie's yours though got with much adoe We do present this Comedy in which A rivulet of pure wit flows strong and rich In Fancy Language and all parts that may Adde Grace and Ornament to a merry Play Which this may prove Yet not to go too far In promises from this our Female war We do intreat the angry men would not Expect the Mazes of a subtle plot Set speeches high expressions and what 's worse In a true Comedy Politique discourse The end we aime at is to make you sport Yet neither gaule the City nor the Court Heare and observe his Comique straine and when Y' are sick of Melancholly see 't agen 'T is no deare Physick since 't will quit the cost Or his Intentions with our paines are lost The Epilogue THe Tamers tam'd but so as nor the men Can find one just cause to complaine of when They fitly do consider in their lives They should not raigne as Tyrants or'e their wives Nor can the woman from this president Insult or triumph it being aptly meant To teach both Sexes due equality And as they stand bound to love mutually If this effect arising from a cause Well laid and grounded may deserve applause We something more then hope our honest ends Will keep the men and women too our friends The Prologue to the Martiall Maid STatues and Pictures challenge praise and Fame If they can justly boast and prove they came From Phydeas or Apelles None deny Poets and Picture Painters hold a Sympathy Yet their workes may decay and lose their grace Receiving blemish in their Limbs or Face When the Minds Art hath this Preheminence She still retaineth her first Excellence Then why should not this deare peece be esteem'd Child to the richest Fancies that e're teem'd When not their meanest Off-spring that came forth But bore the image of their Fathers worth Beaumonts and Fletchers whose desert out-weighs The best Applause and their least sprig of Bayes Is worthy Phoebus and who comes to gather Their fruits of Wit he shall not rob the Treasure Nor can you ever surfeit of the plenty Nor can you call them rare though they be dainty The more you take the more you do them right And we will thanke you for your own delight The Epilogue OUr Author feares there are some Rebels hearts Whose dulnesse doth oppose Loves piercing Darts Such will be apt to say there wanted wit The Language low very few Scenes are writ With spirit and life such odd things as these He cares not for nor never meanes to please For if your selves a Mistris or loves friends Are lik'd with this smooth Play he hath his ends A Song to the Play called Wit at severall Weapons FAine would I wake you Sweet but feare I should invite you to worse cheare In your dreames you cannot fare Meaner than Musick no compare None of your slumbers are compil'd Under the pleasure makes a Child Your day-delights so well compact That what you thinke turnes all to Act I 'de wish my life no better play Your dreame by night your thought by day Wake gently wake Part softly from your dreames The morning flies To your faire eyes To take her speciall beames The Prologue to the Faire Maid of the Inne PLaies have their fates not as in their true sence They 're understood but as the influence Of idle custome madly works upon The drosse of many tongu'd opinion A worthy story howsoever writ For language modest mirth conceit o● wit Mercies oft times with the sweet Commendation Of hang 't 't is scurvey when for approbation A Jigge shall be clapt at and every Rhime Prais'd and applauded by a clam'rous chyme Let ignorance and laughter dwell together They are beneath the Muses petty Hether Came Nobler Judgements and to those the straine Of our invention is not bent in vaine The faire maid of the Inne to you commends Her hopes and welcomes and withall intends In the entertaines to which she doth invite ye All things to please and some things to delight ye The Epilogue VVE would faine please ye and as faine be pleas'd 'T is but a little liking both are eas'd We have your money and you have our ware And to our understanding good and faire For your own wisdomes sake be not so mad To acknowledge ye have bought things deare and bad Let not a brack i' th stuffe or here and there The fading glosse a generall losse appeare We know ye take up worse Commodities And dearer pay yet thinke your bargains wise We know in meat and wine ye fling away More time and wealth which is but dearer pay And with the Reckoning all the pleasure lost We bid you not unto repenting cost The price is easie and so light the Play That ye may new digest it ev'ry day Then Noble friends as ye would choose a Mistris Only to please the Eye a while and kisse Till a good wife be got So let this Play Hold ye a while untill a better may First Song to the Tragedy of Valentinian NOw the lusty spring is seene Golden yellow gaudy blew Daintily invite the view Every where on every Greene Roses blushing as they blow And inticing men to pull Lillies whiter than the snow Woodbines of sweet honey full All Loves Emblems and all cry Ladies if not pluck'd we dye Yet the lusty Spring hath stayd Blushing red and purest white Daintily to love invite Every woman every maid Cherries kissing as they grow And inviting men to taste Apples even ripe below Winding gently to the waste All loves Emblems and all cry Ladies if not pluckt we dye The second Song HEare ye Ladies that despise What the mighty love hath done Feare Examples and be wise Feare Calisto was a Nun. Leda sailing on the streame To deceive the hopes of man Love accounting but a dreame Doted on a silver Swan Danae in a brazen Tower Where no love was loov'd a Flower Heare ye Ladies that are coy What the mighty love can do Feare the fiercenesse of the Boy The chaste Moone he makes to wooe Vesta

inflam'd So jealously inrag'd then gently tam'd That I in reading have the Person seen And your Pen hath part Stage and Actor been Or shall I say that I can scarce forbeare To clap when I a Captaine do meet there So lively in his own vaine humour drest So braggingly and like himselfe exprest That Moderne Cowards when they saw him plaid Saw blusht departed guilty and betrai'd You wrote all parts right what soe're the Stage Had from you was seen there as in the Age And had their equall life Vices which were Manners abroad did grow corrected there They who poss●ss'd a box and halfe Crown spent To learne obscenenes return'd innocent And thank'd you for this coz'nage whose chast Scene Taught loves so Noble so reform'd so cleane That they who brought foule fires and thither came To bargaine went thence with a holy flame Be 't to your praise too that your Stock and veine Held both to Tragick and to Comick straine Where e're you listed to be high and grave No Busk in shew'd more solid no quill gave Such feeling objects to draw teares from eyes Spectators sate part in your Tragedies And where you lifted to be low and free Mirth turn'd the whole house into Comedy So piercing where you pleas'd hitting a fault That humours from your Pen issued all salt Nor were you thus in works and Poems knit As to be but two halfes and make one wit But as some things we see have double cause And yet the effect it selfe from both whole draws So though you were thus twisted and combin'd As two bodies to have but one faire mind Yet if we praise you rightly we must say Both joy'nd and both did wholly make the Play For that you could write singly we may guesse By the divided peeces which the Presse Hath severally set forth nor were gone so Like some our Moderne Authors made to go On meerely by the help of th' other who To purchase fame do come forth one of Two Nor wrote you so that ones part was to lick The other into shape nor did one stick The others cold Inventions with such wit As serv'd like spice to make them quick and fit Nor out of mutuall want or emptinesse Did you conspire to go still Twins to th' Presse But what thus joyned you wrote might have come forth As good from each and stor'd with the same worth That thus united them you did joyne sense In you 't was League in others Impotence And the Presse which both thus amongst us sends Sends us one Poet in a Paire of Friends On the happy Collection of Beaumont's and Fletcher's Works FLETCHER arise Usurpers share thy Bayes They Canton thy vast Wit to build small Playes He comes his Volume breaks through clouds and dust Down little Wits Ye must refund Ye must Nor comes he private here 's great BEAUMONT too How could one single World encompasse Two For these Co-heires had equall power to teach All that all Wits both can and cannot reach Shakespeare was early up and went so drest As for those dawning houres he knew was best But when the Sun shone forth You two thought fit To weare just Robes and leave off trunk-hose-Trunk-hose-Wit Now now 't was Perfect None must looke for Now Manners and Scenes may alter but not You For Yours are not meere Humours gilded straines The Fashion lost Your massy Sense remaines Some thinke Your Wit 's of two Complexions fram'd That One the Sock th' Other the Buskin claim'd That should the Stage embattaile all its Force FLETCHER would lead the foot BEAUMONT the horse But you were Both for Both not Semi-wits Each Piece is wholly Two yet never splits Y' are not Two Faculties and one Soule still He th' Understanding Thou the quick free Will But as two Voices in one Song embrace FLETCHER'S keen Trebble and deep BEAUMONTS Base Two full Congeniall Soules still both poevail'd His Muse and Thine were Quarter'd not Impal'd Both brought Your Ingots Both toyl'd at the Mint Beat melted sifted till no drosse stuck in 't Then in each Others scales weigh'd every graine Then smooth'd and burnish'd then weigh'd all againe Stampt Both your Names upon 't at one bold Hit Then then 't was Coyne as well as Bullion Wit Thus Twinns But as when Fate one Eye deprives That other strives to double which survives So BEAUMONT dy'd yet left in Legacy His Rules and Standard-wit FLETCHER to Thee Still the same Planet though not fill'd so soon A Two-horn'd Crescent then now one Full-Moon Joynt Love before now Honour doth provoke So the old Twin Giants forcing a huge Oake One slipp'd his footing th' other sees him fall Grasp'd the whole Tree and single held up all Imperiall FLETCHER here begins thy Raign Scenes flow like Sun-beames from thy glorious Brain Thy swift dispatching Soule no more doth stay Than he that built two Cities in one day Ever brim-full and sometimes running o're To feed poore languid Wits that waite at doore Who creep and creep yet ne're above-ground stood For Creatures have most Feet which have least Blood But thou art still that Bird of Paradise Which hath no feet and ever nobly flies Rich lusty Sence such as the Poet ought For Poems if not Excellent are Naught Low wit in Scenes in state a Peasant goes If meane and flat let it foot Yeoman Prose That such may spell as are not Readers grown To whom He that writes Wit shews he hath none Brave Shakespeare flow'd yet had his Ebbings too Often above Himselfe sometimes below Thou alwaies Best if ought seem'd to decline 'T was the unjudging Rout's mistake not thine Thus thy faire SHEPHEARDESSE which the bold Heap False to Themselves and Thee did prize so cheape Was found when understood fit to be Crown'd At worst 't was worth Two hundred thousand pound Some blast thy Works lest we should track their Walke Where they steale all those few good things they talke Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on For Plunder'd folkes ought to be rail'd upon But as stoln goods go off at halfe their worth Thy strong Sence pall's when they purloine it forth When did'st Thou borrow where 's the man e're read Ought begg'd by Thee from those Alive or Dead Or from dry Goddesses as some who when They stuffe their page with Gods write worse than Men. Thou was 't thine own Muse and hadst such vast odds Thou out-writt'st him whose verse made all those Gods Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age upreares As much as Greeks or Latines thee in yeares The Ocean Fancy knew nor Bankes nor Damms We ebbe down dry to pebble Anagrams Dead and insipid all despairing sit Lost to behold this great Relapse of Wit What strength remaines is like that wild and fierce Till Johnson made good Poets and right Verse Such boyst'rous Trifles Thy Muse would not brooke Save when she 'd show how scurvily they looke No savage Metaphors things rudely Great Thou dost display not butcher a Conceit Thy Nerves have Beauty which