Poem fractal

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0.031 apart. A smaller distance means the lines are built more alike.

This number is read from the build of the lines. The bright edge is that number, carried outward until the pattern repeats.

On Her Vanity

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

0.0369 + 0.6104i

Drawing the boundary…

Fond ladds that spend so fast your poasting time

by Giles Fletcher

0.0092 + 0.5962i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

On Her Vanity

by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

What are these things thou lovest? Vanity.
To see men turn their heads when thou dost pass; 
To be the signboard and the looking-glass 
Where every idler there may glut his eye; 
To hear men speak thy name mysteriously, 
Wagging their heads. Is it for this, alas, 
That thou hast made a placard of a face 
On which the tears of love were hardly dry? 
What are these things thou lovest? The applause 
Of prostitutes at wit which is not thine; 
The sympathy of shop-boys who would weep 
Their shilling’s worth of woe in any cause, 
At any tragedy.—Their tears and mine, 
What difference? Oh truly tears are cheap! 

Fond ladds that spend so fast your poasting time

by Giles Fletcher

Fond ladds that spend so fast your poasting time,
(Too poasting time, that spends your time as fast)
To chaunt light toyes, or frame some wanton rime,
Where idle boyes may glut their lustful tast;
Or else with praise to cloath some fleshly slime
With virgins roses and faire lillies chast;
While itching bloods and youthfull cares adore it;
But wiser men, and once yourselues, will most abhorre it.

But thou (most neere, most deare) in this of thine
Ha'st proov'd the Muses not to Venus bound;
Such as thy matter, such thy Muse, divine;
Or thou such grace with Merci's selfe hast found,
That she herself deign's in thy leaues to shine;
Or stol'n from heav'n, thou broughtst this verse to ground,
Which frights the nummed soule with fearefull thunder,
And soone with honied dewes melts it 'twixt ioy and wonder.

Then doe not thou malitious tongues esteeme;
The glasse, through which an envious eye doth gaze,
Can easily make a mole-hill mountaines seeme:
His praise dispraises, his dispraises, praise;
Enough, if best men best thy labours deem,
And to the highest pitch thy merit raise;
While all the Muses to thy song decree
Victorious Triumph, Triumphant Victorie.

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