Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.030 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.

Her Muffe

by Richard Lovelace

−0.1042 − 0.0700i

Drawing the boundary…

Melancholy

by John Fletcher

−0.1025 − 0.0995i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

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

Her Muffe

by Richard Lovelace

Twas not for some calm blessing to deceive,
Thou didst thy polish'd hands in shagg'd furs weave;
It were no blessing thus obtain'd;
Thou rather would'st a curse have gain'd,
Then let thy warm driven snow be ever stain'd.

Not that you feared the discolo'ring cold
Might alchymize their silver into gold;
Nor could your ten white nuns so sin,
That you should thus pennance them in,
Each in her coarse hair smock of discipline.

Nor, Hero-like who, on their crest still wore
A lyon, panther, leopard, or a bore,
To looke their enemies in their herse,
Thou would'st thy hand should deeper pierce,
And, in its softness rough, appear more fierce.

No, no, LUCASTA, destiny decreed,
That beasts to thee a sacrifice should bleed,
And strip themselves to make you gay:
For ne'r yet herald did display
A coat, where SABLES upon ERMIN lay.

This for lay-lovers, that must stand at dore,
Salute the threshold, and admire no more;
But I, in my invention tough,
Rate not this outward bliss enough,
But still contemplate must the hidden muffe.

Melancholy

by John Fletcher

Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy—
O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan—
These are the sounds we feed upon:
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

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