Rutter, Joseph · published 1635 · first performed or written 1634 [1633-1635] (Annals) pastoral · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
Orpheus, that on Eurydice Spent all his love, on others scorn, Now on the banks of Heber torn, Finds the reward of foolish constancy. Cho. Come then to me, &c. And sigh no more for one love lost, I have a thousand Cupids here, Shall recompense with better cheer Thy misspent labours, and thy bitter cost. Cho. Come then to me, &c. shepherds, if you have any pity, come, And see a woeful spectacle. What is't That can be worth the breaking of our sports? The gentle Nymph Nerina. What of her? The last of her I think, she lies a dying, And calls to speak with you. Curse of your follies; Do I live here whilst she is dying there? But shepherd, what disease is't that so soon Could spend his force upon her? she was well This morning, when she made poor Hylas' sick. I know not, I am sent unto the well Of Aesculapius to fetch some water For her recovery. I must be gone. shepherds here let us end. I think we are Perfect in all the rest: This night the King Must see't, resolve on that. We are all ready. Then let's away, and see what will betide This gentle Nymph Nerina. We'll go with you. HOld up thy head good child, see he is come; Bring me the water quickly, whilst there is Some life in her: now chafe her good Dorinda. All is in vain, I cannot live; dear father Farewell: what shepherd's that lies on the ground? Is it not Hylas? Yes, it is he, Nerina. Alas poor shepherd, 'tis my greatest grief, That I have grieved him, I would beg life For nothing but to make him satisfaction. Hylas, what on the ground? look up and speak Alas, he's dead. It cannot be: good father Let me go to him, and but touch his ear, It may be that my voice may have more virtue. Do what thou wilt sweet heart: see my poor child How charitable she is, being half dead herself, she pities others. Mark her fineness, Now at the brim of death: she kisses him: And took this way to mock her simple father; O fine invention! sure a woman's wit, Does never fail her. Hylas, Hylas, speak, Nerina calls thee; speak to thy Nerina. What cannot love do? It revives the dead, He's come to himself again. What God is it, That has the power to return my soul From the Elysian fields? It is no God, A Goddess rather, Hylas. 'Tis Nerina, Look where she is. Ah then I do not wonder I cannot die, when my best soul comes to me: Shall we live ever thus? How fain I would forty sake, Hylas, but it cannot be: I feel a heavy sleep sit on my head, And my strength fails me, help me sweet Dorinda, Farewell for ever: oh I die, I die.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Orpheus, that on Euridice Spent all his love, on others ſcorne, Now on the bankes of Heber torne, Findes the reward of fooliſh conſtancy. Cho. Come then to me, &c. And ſigh no more for one love loſt, I have a thouſand Cupids here, Shall recompence with better cheere Thy miſ-ſpent labours, and thy bitter coſt. Cho. Come then to me, &c. Shepheards, if you have any pittie, come, And ſee a woefull ſpectacle. What is't That can be worth the breaking of our ſports? The gentle Nymph Nerina. What of her? The laſt of her I thinke, ſhe lies a dying, And calls to ſpeake with you. Curſe of your follies; Do I live here whilſt ſhe is dying there? But ſhepheard, what diſeaſe is't that ſo ſoone Could ſpend his force upon her? ſhe was well This morning, when ſhe made poore Hylas ſicke. I know not, I am ſent unto the well Of Aeſculapius to fetch ſome water For her recovery. I muſt be gone. Shepheards here let us end. I thinke we are Perfect in all the reſt: This night the King Muſt ſee't, reſolve on that. We are all ready. Then lets away, and ſee what will betide This gentle Nymph Nerina. We'le goe with you. HOld up thy head good childe, ſee he is come; Bring me the water quickly, whilſt there is Some life in her: now chafe her good Dorinda. All is in vaine, I cannot live; deare father Farewell: what ſhepheard's that lies on the ground? Is it not Hylas? Yes, it is he, Nerina. Alas poore ſhepheard, tis my greateſt griefe, That I have grieved him, I would beg life For nothing but to make him ſatisfaction. Hylas, what on the ground? looke up and ſpeake Alas, he's dead. It cannot be: good father Let me goe to him, and but touch his eare, It may be that my voice may have more vertue. Do what thou wilt ſweete heart: ſee my poore child How charitable ſhe is, being halfe dead Her ſelfe, ſhe pities others. Marke her fineneſſe, Now at the brimm of death: ſhe kiſſes him: And tooke this way to mock her ſimple father; O fine invention! ſure a womans wit, Does never faile her. Hylas, Hylas, ſpeake, Nerina calls thee; ſpeake to thy Nerina. What cannot love doe? It revives the dead, He's come to himſelfe againe. What God is it, That has the power to returne my ſoule From the Elyſian fields? It is no God, A Goddeſſe rather, Hylas. 'Tis Nerina, Looke where ſhe is. Ah then I do not wonder I cannot die, when my beſt ſoule comes to me: Shall wee live ever thus? How faine I would Forthy ſake, Hylas, but it cannot be: I feele a heavy ſleepe ſit on my head, And my ſtrength failes me, helpe me ſweet Dorinda, Farewell for ever: oh I die, I die.