Randolph, Thomas · published 1638 · first performed or written 1630 [licensed for stage, Nov 26] (Annals) pastoral · King's Revels Company · before the Court T21 Cupid, Venus and the nymphs typicality 0.74 · 493 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T21: cupid, venus, love, ceres, diana, fair, nymphs, goddess, bow, damon.
Ceres, to whom we owe that yet We do not Mast and Acorns eat: That didst provide us better meat, The purest flower of finest wheat. This blood we spill at thy desire, To kindle, and to quench a ire. O let it quench thy flame of fire, And kindle mercies more entire. O let this guilty blood atone For every poor unlucky one; Nymph, or Swain, who ere do groan Under sad Loves imperious throne. That Love a happier age may see In thy long tortured Sicily. That blood which must th' Atonement be Thus Goddess, thus, we pay to thee! Stay, stay that impious hand, whose hasty zeal Thinks murder can appease the Goddess wrath! If it be murder must appease her wrath, What is't can move her anger? Do not then, Do not pollute her Altar, lest it keep The crimson stain of blood, and blush for ever, At this too cruel, ignorant devotion. Avoid the mad man. Why Pilumnus, Why? By the dread Ompha, spare this guilty blood, And I'll expound the Oracle. What fire has yet his blood or quenched or kindled? Why it hath quenched the sadder flames of love, And more auspicious fires begin to move. Where? in what breast? No love in all Trinacria But under Cupid's sceptre faints and groans More now then ever. Thy unfortunate Damon, And more unfortunate Amarillis stand A sad example; Thy Urania (O sad sweet name!) may with her poor Amintas Witness his tyrannous reign: here in Sicilia Turtles grow jealous, Doves are turned unchaste, The very Pellica●…s of Trinacria●… woods Are found unnatural, and thirst the blood Of their young brood, (alas who can believe it?) Whom they were wont to suckle with their own. O wretched season! Bitter fruits of love! The very Storks with us are Parricides. Nay even the senseless trees are sensible Of this imperious rage: the gentle Vine (The happy emblem once of happier Lovers) That with such amorous twines, and close embraces Did cling about the loved-loving elm, With slacker branches now falls down and withers: If then to add more fuel to the flame, To pour in oil and sulphur be to quench it, The flame is quenched. Nor are you he, Pilumnus, That must expound the Oracle, 'Tis a wit Such as mine is neglected, that must hit The Goddess meaning: you, the living Oracle Of Sicily, the breathing Ompha of the Kingdom Will misconceive the Goddess; you are wise Skilled in the virtues of all herbs, and flowers, What makes our Ewes can best, what keeps them sound; Can tell us all the mysteries of heaven, The number, height, and motion of the stars; 'tis a mad brain, an intellect, you scorn That must untie this riddle. But I know The wrath of Ceres cannot be appeased But by the blood of Claius. So it is. How can that be? yet his accursed gore Hath not imbrued the Altar.
nodes 2767–2836 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 37 of 42 in this edition
Length
493 words · 690 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T21 — Cupid, Venus and the nymphscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.735 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T21 · seed 44: T24 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Ceres, to whom we owe that yet We doe not Mast and Acornes eat: That didst provide us better meat, The purest flower of finest wheat. This bloud we spill at thy desire, To kindle, and to quench a ire. O let it quench thy flame of fire, And kindle mercies more entire. O let this guilty bloud attone For every poore unlucky one; Nymph, or Swain, who ere doe grone Vnder sad Loves imperious throne. That Love a happier age may see In thy long tortur'd Sicily. That blood which must th' Attonement bee Thus Goddesse, thus, we pay to thee! Stay, stay that impious hand, whose hasty zeale Thinks murther can appease the Goddesse wrath! If it be murther must appease her wrath, What is't can move her anger? Doe not then, Doe not pollute her Altar, least it keep The crimson staine of bloud, and blush for ever, At this too cruell, ignorant devotion. Avoid the mad man. Why Pilumnus, Why? By the dread Ompha, spare this guilty blood, And I'le expound the Oracle. What fire has yet his bloud or quench't or kindled? Why it hath quencht the sadder flames of love, And more auspitious fires begin to move. Where? in what brest? No love in all Trinacria But under Cupids scepter faints and groanes More now then ever. Thy unfortunate Damon, And more unfortunate Amarillis stand A sad example; Thy Vrania (O sad sweet name!) may with her poore Amintas Witnesse his tyrannous reigne: here in Sicilia Turtles grow jealous, Doves are turn'd unchast, The very Pellicas of Trinacria woods Are found unnaturall, and thirst the bloud Of their young brood, (alas who can believe it?) Whom they were wont to suckle with their own. O wretched season! Bitter fruits of love! The very Storks with us are Parricides. Nay even the senselesse trees are sensible Of this imperious rage: the gentle Vine (The happy embleme once of happier Lovers) That with such amorous twines, and close imbraces Did cling about the loved-loving elme, With slacker branches now falls down and withers: If then to adde more fuell to the flame, To powre in oyle and sulphure be to quench it, The flame is quench'd. Nor are you hee, Pilumnus, That must expound the Oracle, 'Tis a witt Such as mine is neglected, that must hit The Goddesse meaning: you, the living Oracle Of Sicilie, the breathing Ompha of the Kingdome Will misconceive the Goddesse; you are wise Skil'd in the vertues of all herbs, and flowers, What makes our Ewes ean best, what keeps thē sound; Can tell us all the mysteries of heaven, The number, height, and motion of the starres; Tis a mad brain, an intellect, you scorne That must unty this riddle. But I know The wrath of Ceres cannot be appeas'd But by the bloud of Claius. So it is. How can that bee? yet his accursed gore Hath not imbru'd the Altar.