Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Fashion is a traveler, and shepherds cannot follow it. I Laurinda, it travels into all Nations the world o'er. And therefore should go round. And therefore does go round, blindfold, like a Mill-Horse, who thinks he goes forward, yet keeps his course circular. But now Laurinda what further Ceremony can you devise for this Funeral? poor hapless corpse! To mourn for we know not whom, and when peradventure death was the beginning of her happiness, were to abuse ourselves, and be sorry she could be no longer miserable. I'll strew my flowers on her Virgin Hearse, And rob another Meadow for the sports, The place affords no other Ceremony. Yes, we must have a Country Song for her farewell from the earth, and welcome to the earth. I'll do my best, though it be unseasonable to sing at burials. Poor Wench, even in the flower of her age! although I knew thee not, yet for thy memory I'll change with thee— Your hand Arminio. Laur. Die, die, ah die! we all must die: 'Tis fate's decree, Then ask not why. When we were framed the Fates consultedly Did make this law, That all things borne should die. Yet Nature strove And did deny We should be slaves To Destiny: At which they heap Such misery That Nature's self Did wish to die: And thanked their goodness that they would foresee To end our cares with such a mild Decree. Farewell and sleep for ever. 'Tis too late, I have missed him, and all my labour's lost. Speed you shepherds and your work. Sir, you are welcome, but our sad work is sped already, and so are they for whom we work. Why is it sad then if both be sure of speeding? Because Sir the best speed our labour can have, is the sad end of their life for whom we work. We have buried the dead. 'Tis well that Charity is not run the Country then. But whom have you buried? One doubtless as unfortunate as unknown, a stranger sure in these parts, and as she seemed, a maid: further particulars we know not: but pitying she should want a burial, as we came by and saw her dead, we gave her that which earth denies to no misfortune, a poor grave. And took from off her face this Scarf, blessed with the last kiss her dying lips could give. O my apprehensive soul! What mean you Sir? do you know it? I too too well. Poor Lord that wontest to wear this Relic, which is now left for an Index To turn thee to thy woes. Good Shepherd Grant me thus much and bestow it on me. Faith Sir since I perceive you long for it, you shall prevail: and if she were of your acquaintance, keep it as a monument of her untimely death. So fare you well Sir.
nodes 1396–1438 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 33 of 47 in this edition
Length
482 words · 611 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.597 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Faſhion is a Traviller, and Shepheards cannot follow it. I Laurinda, it travels into all Nations the world o'r. And therefore ſhould goe round. And therefore does goe round, blindfold, like a Mill-Horſe, who thinkes he goes forward, yet keeps his courſe circular. But now Laurinda what further Ceremony can you deviſe for this Funerall? poore hapleſſe Coarſe! To mourne for we know not whom, and when peradventure death was the beginning of her happineſſe, were to abuſe our ſelves, and be ſorry ſhe could be no longer miſerable. Ile ſtrow my flowers on her Virgin Hearſe, And rob another Meddow for the ſports, The place affords no other Ceremony. Yes, wee muſt have a Countrey Song for her farewell from the earth, and welcome to the earth. Ile doe my beſt, though it bee unſeaſonable to ſing at burials. Poore Wench, even in the flower of her age! although I knew thee not, yet for thy memory Ile change with thee— Your hand Arminio. Laur. Die, die, ah die! Wee all muſt die: 'Tis Fates decree, Then aske not why. When we were fram'd the Fates conſultedly Did make this law, That all things borne ſhould die. Yet Nature ſtrove And did denie We ſhould be ſlaves To Deſtinie: At which they heape Such miſerie That Natures ſelfe Did wiſh to die: And thankt their goodneſſe that they would foreſee To end our cares with ſuch a milde Decree. —Farewell and ſleep for ever. 'Tis too late, I have miſs'd him, and all my labour's loſt. Speed you ſhepheards and your worke. Sir, you are welcome, but our ſad worke is ſped already, and ſo are they for whom we worke. Why is it ſad then if both be ſure of ſpeeding? Becauſe Sir the beſtſpeed our labour can have, is the ſad end of their life for whom we worke. We have buried the dead. 'Tis well that Charity is not runne the Countrey then. But whom have you buried? One doubtleſſe as unfortunate as unknowne, a ſtranger ſure in theſe parts, and as ſhee ſeem'd, a maid: further particulars we know not: but pittying ſhee ſhould want a buriall, as we came by and ſaw her dead, we gave her that which earth denies to no misfortune, a poore grave. And tooke from off her face this Scarfe, bleſs'd with the laſt kiſſe her dying lips could give. O my apprehenſive ſoule! What meane you Sir? doe you know it? I too too well. Poore Lord that wont'ſt to weare this Relique, which is now left for an Index To turne thee to thy woes. Good Shepheard Grant me thus much and beſtow it on me. Faith Sir ſince I perceive you long for it, you ſhall prevaile: and if ſhee were of your acquaintance, keepe it as a monument of her untimely death. So fare you well Sir.