Cowley, Abraham · published 1638 · first performed or written 1633 [c.1633-1636] (Annals) pastoral unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Never, farewell: good Demophil, Farewell Spodaia, temper your laments; If I return we shall again be happy. You shall not want my prayers. The Gods that pity Lovers (if there be any) attend upon you. Will you needs go? I knit delays; 'twere time I were now ready, And I shall sin if I seem dull or slow In any thing which touches Callidora, Oh! that name wounds me; we'll bear you company A little way, and Clariana look To see us often at your Country Farm, we'll sigh, and grieve together. Come, come away, &c. Now where are all your sonnets? your rare fancies? Could the fine morning music which you waked Your Mistress with, prevail no more than this? Why in the City now your very Fiddlers Good morrow to your worship, will get something, Hath she denied thee quite? She hath undone me; I have ploughed the Sea, And begot storming billows, Can no persuasions move her? No more than thy least breath can stir an oak, Which hath this many years scorned the fierce wars Of all the winds. 'Tis a good hearing; then She'll cost you no more pairs of Turtle Doves, Nor garlands knit with amorous conceits, I do perceive some rags of the Court fashions Visibly creeping now into the woods, The more he shows his love, the more she slights him, Yet will take any gift of him, as willingly As Country Justices the Hens and Geese Of their offending neighbours; this is right; Now if I loved this wench I would so handle her, I'd teach her what the difference were betwixt One who had seen the Court and City tricks, And a mere shepherd. Lions are tamed, and become slaves to men, And Tigers oft forget the cruelty They sucked from their fierce mothers; but, a woman Ah me! a woman!— Yet if I saw such wonders in her face As you do, I should never doubt to win her. How pray? if gifts would do it, she hath had The daintiest Lambs, the hope of all my flock, I let my apples hang for her to gather, The painful Bee did never load my hives, With honey which she tasted not. You mistake me Friend; I mean not so. How then? if Poetry would do't, what shade Hath not been Auditor of my amorous pipe? What banks are not acquainted with her praises? Which I have sung in verses, and the shepherds Say they are good ones, nay they call me Poet, Although I am not easy to believe them. No, no, no; that's not the way. Why how? If show of grief had Rhetoric enough To move her, I dare swear she had been mine Long before this, what day did ere peep forth In which I wept not dulier than the morning? Which of the winds hath not my sighs increased At sundry times? how often have I cried Hylace, Hylace, till the docile woods Have answered Hylace; and every valley As if it were my Rival, sounded Hylace.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Never, farewell: good Demophil, Farewell Spodaia, temper your laments; If I returne we shall againe be happy. You shall not want my prayers. The Gods that pitty Lovers (if there bee any) attend upon you. Will you needs goe? I knit delayes; 'twere time I were now ready, And I shall sinne if I seeme dull or slow In any thing which touches Callidora, Oh! that name wounds me; we'le beare you company A little way, and Clariana looke To see us often at your Countrey Farme, Wee'le sigh, and grieve together. Come, come away, &c. Now where are all your sonnets? your rare fancies? Could the fine morning musick which you wak'd Your Mistris with, prevaile no more then this? Why in the Citie now your very Fidlers Good morrow to your worship, will get something, Hath she denyed thee quite? Shee hath undone me; I have plow'd the Sea, And begot storming billowes, Can no perswasions move her? No more then thy least breath can stirre an oake, Which hath this many yeares scorn'd the fierce warres Of all the winds. 'Tis a good hearing; then She'le cost you no more payres of Turtle Doves, Nor garlands knit with amorous conceits, I doe perceive some ragges of the Court fashions Visibly creeping now into the woods, The more hee shewes his love, the more shee slights him, Yet will take any gift of him, as willingly As Countrey Justices the Hens and Geese Of their offending neighbours; this is right; Now if I lov'd this wench I would so handle her, I'de teach her what the difference were betwixt One who had seene the Court and Citie tricks, And a meere shepheard. Lions are tam'd, and become slaves to men, And Tygres oft forget the cruelty They suckt from their fierce mothers; but, a woman Ah me! a woman! — Yet if I saw such wonders in her face As you doe, I should never doubt to win her. How pray? if gifts would doe it, she hath had The daintiest Lambes, the hope of all my flock, I let my apples hang for her to gather, The painfull Bee did never load my hives, With honey which she tasted not. You mistake me Friend; I meane not so. How then? if Poetry would do't, what shade Hath not beene Auditor of my amorous pipe? What bankes are not acquainted with her prayses? Which I have sung in verses, and the sheepheards Say they are good ones, nay they call me Poet, Although I am not easie to beleeve them. No, no, no; that's not the way. Why how? If shew of griefe had Rhetorick enough To move her, I dare sweare she had beene mine Long before this, what day did ere peepe forth In which I wept not dulier then the morning? Which of the winds hath not my sighes encreas'd At sundry times? how often have I cryed Hylace, Hylace, till the docile woods Have answered Hylace; and every valley As if it were my Rivall, sounded Hylace.