an index

Like as the sun in a diameter Fires and inflame the objects removed far And heateth kindly, shining lat’rally, So beauty sweetly quickens when tis nigh, But being separated and removed, Burns where it cherished, murders where it loved. Therefore even as an index to a book, So to his mind was young Leander’s look. Hero and Leander, 607-614

again

+++ FAUSTUS: Was this the face that launched a thousand shipsAnd burnt the topless towers of Ilium?Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.[They kiss]Her lips sucks forth my soul. See where it flies!Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.[They kiss again]Here will I dwell, for heaven be in these lips… –Dr Faustus A-text, 5.1 +++ ROMEO: If I profane with my unworthiest handThis holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready standTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. JULIET: Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,Which mannerly devotion shows in this;For saints…

one question

But now, how stands the wind? See, how stands the vanes? The ships are safe, thou say’st, and richly fraught? Why, how now, countrymen? Why flock you thus to me in multitudes? Fond men, what dream you of their multitudes? What at our hands demand ye? How, my lord, my money? Is theft the ground of your religion? What or how can I multiply? What? Bring you scripture to confirm your wrongs? Why stand you thus unmoved by my laments? Why weep you not to think upon my wrongs?  Why pine not I and die in this distress? You partial…

calling it what it once had been

+++ XXIIThe same so sore annoyed has the knight,  That welnigh choked with the deadly stinke, His forces faile, ne can no lenger fight. Whose corage when the feend perceiv’d to shrinke, She poured forth out of her hellish sinke Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small,  Deformed monsters, fowle, and blacke as inke, With swarming all about his legs did crall,And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all. XXIII As gentle Shepheard in sweete even-tide, When ruddy Phoebus gins to welke in west,  High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide, Markes which do byte their hasty supper best, A cloud of combrous gnattes do him molest, All striving…