Comus (The Masque at Ludlow Castle) · chunk 8 of 15
Milton, John · published 1637 · first performed or written 1634 [Sep 29] (Annals) pastoral; masque T22 Shepherds, flocks and Pan typicality 0.79 · 520 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T22: shepherd, pan, shepherds, love, sheep, flocks, fair, shepherdess, swain, away.
How charming is divine Philosophy! Not harsh, and crabbed as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets Where no crude surfeit reigns. List, list I hear Some far off hallow break the silent air. methought so too, what should it be? For certain Either some one like us night foundered here, Or else some neighbour wood man, or at worst Some roving robber calling to his fellows. Heaven keep my sister, again again and near, Best draw, and stand upon our guard. I'll hallow, If he be friendly he comes well, if not Defence is a good cause, and Heaven be for us. That hallow I should know, what are you, speak, Come not too near, you fall on iron stakes else. What voice is that, my young Lord? speak again. O brother 'tis my father Shepherd sure. Thyrsis whose artful strains have oft delayed The huddling brook to hear his madrigal, And sweetened every muskrose of the dale, How cam'st thou here good Swain, hath any ram Slipped from the fold, or young kid lost his dam, Or straggling weather the penned flock forsook, How couldst thou find this dark sequestered nook? O my loved master's heir, and his next joy I came not here on such a trivial toy As a strayed Ewe, or to pursue the stealth Of pilfering wolf, not all the fleecy wealth That doth enrich these downs is worth a thought To this my errand, and the care it brought. But o my virgin Lady where is she, How chance she is not in your company? To tell thee sadly shepherd, without blame Or our neglect, we lost her as we came. ay me unhappy then my fears are true. What fears good Thyrsis? prithee briefly show. I'll tell you, 'tis not vain, or fabulous (Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance) What the sage Poets taught by th'heavenly Muse Storied of old in high immortal verse Of dire Chimaeras and enchanted Isles And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to hell, To such there be, but unbelief is blind. Within the navel of this hideous wood Immured in cypress shades a Sorcerer dwells Of Bacchus, and of Circe borne, great Comus, Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries, And here to every thirsty wanderer By sly enticement gives his baneful cup With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poison The visage quite transforms of him that drinks, And the inglorious likeness of a beast Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintage Charactered in the face; this have I learned Tending my flocks hard by i'th' hilly crofts That brow this bottom glade, whence night by night He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey Doing abhorred rites to Hecate In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. Yet have they many baits, and guileful spells T'inveigle, and invite th'unwary sense Of them that pass unwitting by the way. This evening late by then the chewing flocks Had ta'en their supper on the savoury herb Of Knotgrass dew-besprent, and were in fold
nodes 481–550 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 8 of 15 in this edition
Length
520 words · 722 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T22 — Shepherds, flocks and Pancross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.787 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T24 · seed 44: T25 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
How charming is divine Philosophie! Not harsh, and crabbed as dull fools suppose, But musicall as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetuall feast of nectar'd sweets Where no crude surfet raigns. List, list I heare Some farre off hallow breake the silent aire. Me thought so too, what should it be? For certaine Either some one like us night founder'd here, Or else some neighbour wood man, or at worst Some roaving robber calling to his fellows. Heav'n keepe my sister, agen agen and neere, Best draw, and stand upon our guard. Ile hallow, If he be friendly he comes well, if not Defence is a good cause, and Heav'n be for us. That hallow I should know, what are you, speake, Come not too neere, you fall on iron stakes else. What voice is that, my yong Lord? speak agen. O brother 'tis my father Shepheard sure. Thyrsis whose artfull strains have oft delayd The huddling brook to heare his madrigale, And sweeten'd every muskrose of the dale, How cam'st thou he good Swaine, hath any ram Slip't from the fold, or yong kid lost his dam, Or straggling weather the pen't flock sorsook, How couldst thou find this darke sequester'd nook? O my lov'd masters heire, and his next joy I came not hre on such a triviall toy As a strayd Ewe, or to pursue the stealth Of pilfering wolfe, not all the fleccie wealth That doth enrich these downs is worth a thought To this my errand, and the care it brought. But my virgin Ladie where is she, How chance she is not in your companie? To tell thee sadly shepheard, without blame Or our neglect, wee lost her as wee came. Aye me unhappie then my fears are true. What fears good Thyrsis? prethee briefly shew. Ile tell you, 'tis not vaine, or fabulous (Though so esteem'd by shallow ignorance) What the sage Pos taught by th'heav'nly Muse Soried of old in high immortall verfe Of dire Chimera's and inchanted Iles And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to hell, such there be, but unbeliefe is blind. Within the navill of this hideous wood Immur'd in cypresse shades a Sorcerer dwells Of acchus, and of Ciree borne, great Comus, Deepe skill'd in all his mothers witcheries, And here to every thirstie wanderer By slie enticement gives his banefull cup With many murmurs mixt, whose pleasing poison The visage quite transforms of him that drinks, And the inglorious likenesse of a beast Fixes inead, unmoulding reasons mintage Character'd in the face; this have I learn't Tending my flock hrd by i'th hilly crofts That brow this bottome glade, whence night by night He and his monstrous rout are heard to howle Like stabl'd wolves, or tigers at their prey Doing abhorred rites to Hecate In their obscured haunts of inmost bowres. Yet have they many baits, and guilefull spells T'inveigle, and invite th'unwarie sense Of them that passe unweeting by the way. This evening late by then the chewing flocks Had ta'ne their supper on the savourie herbe Of Knot-grass dew-besprent, and were in fold