Rutter, Joseph · published 1635 · first performed or written 1634 [1633-1635] (Annals) pastoral · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · before the Court T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.79 · 475 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
I think they may: But I could never find so great a Clerk, As could tell how t'expound the meaning of them. My life is nothing but a Mystery; That which I was, and that which I shall be, Is equally unknown. Now, if you'll leave me Unto my thoughts, they'll keep me company. I will, but here is one come to supply me. ay, let me alone. HE that mourns for a mistress, When he knows not where she is, Let him kiss her shadow fair, Or engender with the air; Or see if with his tears he can Swell at an ebb the Ocean: Then, if he had not rather die, Let him love none, or all as I. This is the doctrine that I ever taught you, And yet you profit not; these scurvy passions Hang on you still: You that are young and active, That may have all our Nymphs at your devotion, To live a whining kind of life as this, How ill it does become you? True Mirtillus. And yet I do not envy thee the pleasure, Thou hast in thy dispersed affections. You would, if your head were right once; but love, Your love does make an Ass of all your reason. Sure, a true lover is more rational Than you, that love at random everywhere. I do not think so; all the reason love Has left you, to employ in this discourse, Will hardly bring me to confess it to you. Why? all men's actions have some proper end, Whereto their means and strict endeavours tend: Else there would be nought but perplexity In humane life, and all uncertainty. Well, what will you infer on this? That you, Who know no end at all of wild desire, Must in your wandering fancy see this way Leads unto madness, when too late you find That nothing satisfies a boundless mind. ay, but I do confine myself to two, Or three at most; in this variety I please myself, for what is wanting in One, I may find it in another. No. Not in another, one is the only Centre The line of love is drawn to, must have all Perfections in her, all that's good and fair, Or else her Lover must believe her so. ay, there's your error, that's the ground of all Your tears, and sighs, your fruitless hopes and fears, When she perhaps has not so much t'adorn her As the least grace your thoughts bestow upon her. Well, be it so; and yet this fair Idea Which I have framed unto myself, does argue Virtue in me; so that if she be lost, Or dead, (ay me! the sad remembrance of My Sylvia causes this) yet I must love, Because the Character is indelible, Writ in my heart, and heaven is witness to it.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I thinke they may: But I could never finde ſo greate a Clerke, As could tell how t'expound the meaning of them. My life is nothing but a Myſtery; That which I was, and that which I ſhall be, Is equally unknowne. Now, if you'le leave me Unto my thoughts, they'le keepe me companie. I will, but here is one come to ſupplie me. I, let me alone. HE that mournes for a Miſteris, When he knows not where ſhe is, Let him kiſſe her ſhaddow faire, Or ingender with the ayre; Or ſee if with his teares he can Swell at an ebb the Ocean: Then, if he had not rather die, Let him love none, or all as I. This is the doctrine that I ever taught you, And yet you profit not; theſe ſcurvy paſſions Hang on you ſtill: You that are yong and active, That may have all our Nymphs at your devotion, To live a whining kind of life as this, How ill it does become you? True Mirtillus. And yet I doe not envie thee the pleaſure, Thou haſt in thy diſpers'd affections. You would, if your head were right once; but love, Your love does make an Aſſe of all your reaſon. Sure, a true lover is more rationall Then you, that love at randome every where. I doe not thinke ſo; all the reaſon love Has left you, to imploy in this diſcourſe, Will hardly bring me to confeſſe it to you. Why? all mens actions have ſome proper end, Whereto their meanes and ſtrict endeavours tend: Elſe there would be nought but perplexitie In humane life, and all uncertaintie. Well, what will you inferre on this? That you, Who know no end at all of wild deſire, Muſt in your wandring fancie ſee this way Leads unto madneſſe, when too late you finde That nothing ſatisfies a boundleſſe minde. I, but I do confine my ſelfe to two, Or three at moſt; in this varietie I pleaſe my ſelfe, for what is wanting in One, I may finde it in another. No. Not in another, one is the onely Centre The line of love is drawne to, muſt have all Perfections in her, all that's good and faire, Or elſe her Lover muſt beleeve her ſo. I, there's your error, that's the ground of all Your teares, and ſighs, your fruitleſſe hopes and feares, When ſhe perhaps has not ſo much t'adorne her As the leaſt grace your thoughts beſtow upon her. Well, be it ſo; and yet this faire Idea Which I have fram'd unto my ſelfe, does argue Vertue in me; ſo that if ſhe be loſt, Or dead, (ay me! the ſad remembrance of My Sylvia cauſes this) yet I muſt love, Becauſe the Character is indelible, Writ in my heart, and heaven is witneſſe to it.