Selected quad for the lemma: death_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
death_n	life_n	live_v	world_n	13,510	5	4.9137	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A19909	A scourge for paper-persecutors. Or Papers complaint, compil'd in ruthfull rimes, against the paper-spoylers of these times. / By I.D. With a continu'd iust inquisition of the same subiect, fit for this season. Against paper-persecutors. By A.H.; Scourge of folly. Selections	Davies, John, 1565?-1618.; Holland, Abraham, d. 1626. Continued inquisition against paper-persecutors.; Hartwell, Abraham, b. 1553, attributed name.	1625 (1625)	STC 6340; ESTC S109362	11,598	36

fat not as through thee it passes Liue vpon Sentences gainst golden Asses Some burden me sith I oppresse the Stage With all the grosse Abuses of this Age And presse me after that the world may see As in a soiled Glasse her selfe in me Where each man in and out of 's humour pries Vpon himselfe and laughs vntill he cries Vntrussing humerous Poets and such Stuffe As might put plainest Patience in a Ruffe I shew men so they see in mee and Elues Themselues scornd their Scorners scorne themselues O wondrous Age when Phoebus Ympes doe turne Their Armes of Wit against themselues in scorne For lacke of better vse alacke alacke That Lacke should make them so their credits cracke Is want of Wealth or Wit the cause thereof That they thus make themselues a publike scoffe I wot not I but yet I greatly feare It is not with them as I would it were I would it were then Time should ne're report That in these Times Wit spoild himselfe in sport O poore Apollos Priests rich in reproch I st not enough the base your blame should broch But you your selues vnhappie as ye are Must doo 't as if your diuine fury were Turn'd into Hellish to excruciate none To glad your Scorners but your selues alone And make me beare to my eternall shame Th' immortall Records of your Rancors Blame Can you teach men how they themselues should vse When you your selues your selues do so abuse Or sett this Chaos of confusion The World in order by abusion Alas ye cannot For Men will dispise The precepts of great Clarkes if so unwise Then Time redeeme and in time that amisse And I past-time will beare the blame of this For pale-fac'd paper cannot blush a whit Though still it beare the greatest blame of Wit Yet Poets loue I sith they make me weare What weares out Time my rich and gaudiest Geare Yea those I loue that in too earnest Game Or little spleene did me no little shame Sith I can witnesse to succeeding Times They oft haue me araid with royall Rimes That rauish Readers though they enuious bee Such sacred Raptures they haue put on me Heere giue me leaue kinde Reader to digresse To speake of their vnhappy happinesse Who can put words into the mouthes of kings That make them more than seeme Celestiall things And can their deeds so fashion with their Pen That doing so they should be Gods with men Each Moode that moues the Minde they so can moue As doth the Wit the Will or Beauty Loue. Yet as they were accursed by the Fates They can moue none to better their estates Who do not onely hurt themselues alone But Fortune that still hurts them do enthrone Among the Senate of those Deities That hisse like Geese at their kinde Gulleries What bootes the Braines to haue a wit diuine To make what ere it touch in Glory shine If Midas like it famisht be with store Of golden Morsels set the same before And for an hunger-staruen Fee alas To make an Idoll of a Golden Asse It 's the worst way that wit can vse his trade For Fee so light with rich praise Blocks to lade Yet will I not so wrong my selfe and you To bid you quite your thriftlesse Trade eschue For then in time I might want change perchance Of Robes that doe my glory most aduance No write kinde Patrons but let Patrons such Be prais'd as they deserue a littl 's much Because that little good in such is found That giue but little to be much renownd Yet write deare Gracers that doe make me faire And liue the while Chamelion like by ayre Your lines like shadowes set my Beauty forth Shadowing the life of Art Wits dearest worth When you are gone for long you cannot stay Whose Braines your Pens picke out to throw away I will remember you and make you liue A life without worlds charge which Fame doth giue For should that life cost this Age more than breath It soone would gnaw your deerest Fames to death Mans life is but a dreame Nay lesse then so A shadow of a Dreame that 's scarce a show Then in this Shadow shadow out that Shade That may the world substantially perswade You are halfe Gods and more so cannot die By reason of your Wits Diuinitie How am I plagu'd with pettifogging Scribes That load me with foule lies for Fees and Bribes And though wide Lines vpon my sheetes they put Close knau'ry yet in those wide Lines they shut Which there in mystery obscurely lies That those which see it need haue Eagles eies So I a Labyrinth am made thereby Where men oft lose themselues vntill they die Or else a Traitrous trap and subtle Snare To crush rash fooles which runne in vnaware But that which most my soule excruciates Some Chroniclers that write of Kingdomes States Doe so absurdly sableize my White With Maskes and Enterludes by day and night Balld Maygames Beare-baytings and poore Orations Made to some Prince by some poore Corporations And if a Brick-bat from a Chimney falls When puffing Boreas nere so little bralls Or else a Knaue be hangd by iustice doome For cutting of a Purse in selfe-same roome Or wanton Rig or letcher dissolute Doe stand at Pauls-Crosse in a Sheeten Sute All these and thousand such like toyes as these They clap in Chronicles like Butterflees Of which there is no vse but spotteth me With Medley of their Motly Liuery And so confound graue Matters of estate With plaies of Poppets and I wot not what Which make the Volume of her Greatnesse bost To put the Buyer to a needlesse Cost Ah good Sir Thomas Moore Fame be with thee Thy Hand did blesse the English Historie Or else God knowes it had beene as a Pray To brutish Barbarisme vntill this Day Yet makes the Readers which the same peruse At her vnruly Matters much to muse For ah that euer any should record And Chronicle the Sedges of a Lord Seiges of Townes or Castles No alas That were too well but sedges that doe passe Into the Draught which none can well suruay Without he turne his face another way Yet where that is I may not well disclose But you may finde it follow but your Nose As also when the Weather-cock of Poules Amended was this Chronicler enroles And O alas that er'e I was created Of Raggs to be thus rudely lacerated With such most ragged wilde and childish Stuffe As might put plainest Patience in a Ruffe For this saies one There was on such a day A disputation that 's a Grammer fray Betweene Pauls Schollers and Saint Anthonies Saint Bartholmewes among and the best Prize A Pen was of fiue shillings price Alas That ere this Doteherd made me such an Asse To beare such Trash and that in such a Thing Which we call Chronicle so on me bring A world of shame a shame vpon them all That make mine iniuries Historicall To weare out Time that euer without end My shame may last without