The Sad Shepherd, or A Tale of Robin Hood · chunk 3 of 19
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1637 [c.1612-1637] (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 475 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
And ha' you found her? Whom? My drowned Love. Earine! the sweet Earine! The bright, and beautiful Earine! Have you not heard of my Earine? Just by your Father's Mills (I think I am right) Are not you Much the Miller's son? I am. And Baily to brave Robin-hood? The same. Close by your Father's Mills, Earine! Earine was drowned! O my Earine! (Old Maudlin tells me so, and Douce her Daughter) Ha' you swept the River say you? and not found her? For Fowl, and Fish we have. O not for her? You're goodly friends! right charitable men! Nay, keep your way, and leave me: make your toys, Your tales, your poesies, that you talked of; all Your entertainments: you not injure me: Only if I may enjoy my Cypress wreath! And you will let me weep! ('tis all I ask;) Till I be turned to water, as was she! And troth what less suit can you grant a man? His Fantasy is hurt, let us now leave him: The wound is yet too fresh, to admit searching. Searching? where should I search? or on what tract? Can my slow drop of tears, or this dark shade About my brows, enough describe her loss! Earine, O my Earine's loss! Not, no, no, no; this heart will break first. How will this sad disaster strike the ears Of bounteous Robin-hood, our gentle Master? How will it mar his mirth, abate his feast; And strike a horror into every guest! If I could knit whole clouds about my brows, And weep like Swithen, or those watery signs, The Kids that rise than, and drown all the Flocks Of those rich Shepherds, dwelling in this Vale; Those careless Shepherds, that did let her drown! Than I did something or could make old Trent Drunk with my sorrow, to start out in breaches To drown their Herds, their cattle, and their corn, Break down their Mills, their Dams, o'erturn their weeres, And see their houses, and whole livelihood Wrought into water, with her, all were good: I'd kiss the torrent, and those whirls of Trent, That sucked her in, my sweet Earine! When they have cast their body on the shore, And it comes up, as tainted as themselves, All pale and bloodless, I will love it still, For all that they can do, and make 'em mad, To see how I will hug it in mine arms! And hung upon the looks, devil on her eyes: Feed round about her lips, and eat her kisses! Suck of her drowned flesh! and where's their malice? Not all their envious sousing can change that: But I will study some revenge passed this! I pray you give me leave, for I will study. Though all the Bells, Pipes, Tabors, Timburines' ring That you can plant about me: I will study.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
And ha' you found her? Whom? My drowned Love. Earine! the ſweet Earine! The bright, and beautifull Earine! Have you not heard of my Earine? Juſt by your Fathers Mills (I thinke I am right) Are not you Much the Millers ſonne? I am. And Baily to brave Robin-hood? The ſame. Cloſe by your Fathers Mills, Earine! Earine was drown'd! O my Earine! (Old Maudlin tells me ſo, and Douce her Daughter) Ha' you ſwept the River ſay you? and not found her? For Fowle, and Fiſh wee have. O not for her? You'are goodly friends! right charitable men! Nay, keepe your way, and leave me: make your toyes, Your tales, your poeſies, that you talk'd of; all Your entertainments: you not injure me: Onely if I may enjoy my Cipreſſe wreath! And you will let me weepe! ('tis all I aske;) Till I be turn'd to water, as was ſhe! And troth what leſſe ſuit can you grant a man? His Phantaſie is hurt, let us now leave him: The wound is yet too freſh, to admit ſearching. Searching? where ſhould I ſearch? or on what track? Can my ſlow drop of teares, or this darke ſhade About my browes, enough deſcribe her loſſe! Earine, O my Earine's loſſe! No, no, no, no; this heart will breake firſt. How will this ſad diſaſter ſtrike the eares Of bounteous Robin-hood, our gentle Maſter? How will it marre his mirth, abate his feaſt; And ſtrike a horror into every gueſt! If I could knit whole clouds about my browes, And weepe like Swithen, or thoſe watry ſignes, The Kids that riſe then, and drowne all the Flocks Of thoſe rich Shepherds, dwelling in this Vale; Thoſe careleſſe Shepherds, that did let her drowne! Then I did ſomething or could make old Trent Drunke with my ſorrow, to ſtart out in breaches To drowne their Herds, their cattle, and their corne, Breake downe their Mils, their Dams, ore-turne their weeres, And ſee their houſes, and whole lively-hood Wrought into water, with her, all were good: I'ld kiſſe the torrent, and thoſe whirles of Trent, That ſuck'd her in, my ſweet Earine! When they have caſt their body on the ſhore, And it comes up, as tainted as themſelves, All pale and bloodleſſe, I will love it ſtill, For all that they can doe, and make 'hem mad, To ſee how I will hugge it in mine armes! And hang upon the lookes, dwell on her eyes: Feed round about her lips, and eate her kiſſes! Suck of her drowned fleſh! and where's their malice? Not all their envious ſouſing can change that: But I will ſtudy ſome revenge paſt this! I pray you give me leave, for I will ſtudy. Though all the Bels, Pipes, Tabors, Timburines ring That you can plant about me: I will ſtudy.