Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Not to dissemble, no: but from the Wine I tasted of the Bottle, went a cold Through every vein, that settling at my heart, Shuts up the passages of life, and fills The Organs of my powers with such a frost As kills the spirits that should harbour it. Does Hell conspire with envy then to persecute Our misery? and sent some fiend to take That shape, that ne'er till now did shroud so foul a sin. My soul grows faint and weary of her house, And Death claims right in all my Vital parts: Help me Althaea! help me Mistress! Or bury me at least, and close mine eyes, Death is the best— Of all life's miseries. Dead— stark dead— It is not much I ask the Angry heavens, Lend but my wits to die, I crave no more: Or if you have a further punishment Reserved, be mild, and hurl it quickly on me With its full weight— Poor wench, I have no tools To break the earth, nor means to bury thee: Thou hast not killed a Mother, nor a Prince, Nor been the ruin of thy Family; Is't such a guilt to bear me company, That thou must die, and want what Homicides, And Malefactors find?— a grave! Here take This Scarf, Lucilio was wont to wear it; Tell him thou hast it for thy shroud, and I Am gone to meet him, and have only begged A truce with fatal mischief, whilst I hie, That where he died, there I may likewise die. Poor soul farewell. Come, hands to work, it is the Festival Of our Silvanus, we must round entrench The place fittest for dancing. And strew the banks On which the Summer Lord and Lady sit To see the sports, with these rich spoils of May. Our Shepherds will be frolic then, and lose No Ceremony of their ancient mirth. I like 'em well: the curious preciseness And all-pretended gravities of those That sought these ancient harmless sports to banish, Have thrust away much ancient honesty. I do believe you: 'tis the exercise Of such, only to seem, and to be thought, What they are not, holy. They keep the feast Of our great Pan, with more than needful strictness, And take upon 'em to be great oath-haters, When all is but dissembling, and their Devotions Like Witches charms, disguised with seeming good To bear out wickedness. Then they have reason, for they that live by shows must paint fair. Alas, what's here? a Shepherdess asleep! Sweet benefit of our life, to whom a Turf gives a more secure sleep, than a Palace doth a Monarch. But this is death, not sleep. Why then she's absolutely blessed: Nature has given her an acquittance from the reckonings of fortune and misery. We must in charity bury her. To your Tools then, we can do no less: though it be scarce in fashion now to be charitable.
nodes 1336–1395 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 32 of 47 in this edition
Length
492 words · 641 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.782 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Not to diſſemble, no: but from the Wine I taſted of the Bottle, went a cold Through every veine, that ſettling at my heart, Shuts up the paſſages of life, and fils The Organs of my powers with ſuch a froſt As kils the ſpirits that ſhould harbour it. Does Hell conſpire with envy then to perſecute Our miſery? and ſent ſome fiend to take That ſhape, that ne'r till now did ſhrow'd ſo foule a ſin. My ſoule growes faint and weary of her houſe, And Death claimes right in all my Vitall parts: Help me Althea! help me Miſtris! Or bury me at leaſt, and cloſe mine eyes, Death is the beſt— Of all lifes miſeries. Dead— ſtarke dead— It is not much I aske the Angry heavens, Lend but my wits to die, I crave no more: Or if you have a further puniſhment Reſerv'd, be milde, and hurle it quickly on mee With its full weight— Poore wench, I have no tooles To breake the earth, nor meanes to burie thee: Thou haſt not kill'd a Mother, nor a Prince, Nor beene the ruine of thy Family; Is't ſuch a guilt to beare me company, That thou muſt dye, and want what Homicides, And Malefactors finde? —a grave! Here take This Scarfe, Lucilio was wont to weare it; Tell him thou haſt it for thy Shrowd, and I Am gone to meet him, and have onely begg'd A truce with fatall miſchiefe, whilſt I hie, That where hee dyed, there I may likewiſe die. Poore ſoule farewell. Come, hands to worke, it is the Feſtivall Of our Silvanus, we muſt round entrench The place fitteſt for dancing. And ſtrew the bankes On which the Summer Lord and Lady ſit To ſee the ſports, with theſe rich ſpoyls of May. Our Shepherds will be frolicke then, and loſe No Ceremony of their ancient mirth. I like 'hem well: the curious preciſeneſſe And all-pretended gravities of thoſe That ſought theſe ancient harmleſſe ſports to baniſh, Have thruſt away much ancient honeſty. I doe beleeve you: 'tis the exerciſe Of ſuch, only to ſeeme, and to be thought, What they are not, holy. They keep the feaſt Of our great Pan, with more than needfull ſtrictneſſe, And take upon 'hem to bee great oath-haters, When all is but diſſembling, and their Devotions Like Witches charmes, diſguis'd with ſeeming good To beare out wickedneſſe. Then they have reaſon, for they that live by ſhowes muſt paint faire. Alas, what's here? a Shepherdeſſe aſleep! Sweet benefit of our life, to whom a Turfe gives a more ſecure ſleep, than a Palace doth a Monarch. But this is death, not ſleep. Why then ſhee's abſolutely bleſt: Nature has given her an acquitance from the reckonings of fortune and miſerie. We muſt in charity bury her. To your Tooles then, we can doe no leſſe: though it bee ſcarce in faſhion now to be charitable.