The Sad Shepherd, or A Tale of Robin Hood · chunk 5 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 · 515 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Each minute that we loose thus, I confess, Deserves a censure on us, more or less; But that a sadder chance hath given allay, Both to the Mirth, and Music of this day. Our fairest Shepherdess we had of late, Here upon Trent, is drowned; for whom her mate Young Aeglamour, a Swain, who best could tread Our country dances, and our games did lead, Lives like the melancholy Turtle, drowned Deeper in woe, than she in water: crowned With Yewgh and Cypressa, and will scarce admit The Physic of our presence to his fit. Sometimes he sits, and thinks all day, than walks, Than thinks again; and sighs, weeps, laughs, and talks, And, 'twixt his pleasing frenzy, and sad grief, Is so distracted; as no sought relief, By all our studies can procure his peace. The passion finds in him that large increase, As we doubt hourly we shall loose him too. You should not cross him than what ere you do: For Phantasy stopped, will soon take fire, and burn Into an anger, or to a Frenzy turn. Nay, so we are advised by Alhen here, A good sage Shepherd, who alltho ' he wear An old worn hat and cloak, can tell us more Than all the forward Fry, that boast their Lore. See, yonder comes the brother of the Maid, Young Karolin! how curious, and afraid He is at once! willing to found him out, And loathe to'offend him. Sure he's here about. See where he sits. It will be rare, rare, rare! An exquisite revenge: but peace, no words! Not for the fairest fleece of all the Flock; If it be known afore, 'tis all worth nothing! I'll carve it on the trees, and in the turf, On every green sworth, and in every path, Just to the Margin of the cruel Trent; There will I knock the story in the ground, In smooth great pebble, and moss fill it round, Till the whole Country read how she was drowned, And with the plenty of salt tears thereshed, Quite altar the complexion of the Spring. Or I will get some old, old Grandam, thither, Whose rigid foot but dipped into the water, Shall strike that sharp and sudden cold, throughout, As it shall lose all virtue; and those Nymphs, Those treacherous Nymphs pulled in Earine; Shall stand curled up, like Images of Ice; And never thaw! mark, never! a sharp Justice: Or stay, a better! when the years at hottest, And that the Dogstar foams, and the streams boil, And curls, and works, and swells ready to sparkle: To fling a fellow with a Fever in, To set it all on fire, till it burn, Blew as Scamander, 'fore the walls of Troy; When Vulcan leapt in to him, to consume him. A deep hurt Phantasy. Do you not approve it? Yes gentle Aeglamour, we all approve, And come to gratulate your just revenge: Which since it is so perfect, we now hope, You'll leave all care thereof, and mix with us, In all the proffered solace of the Spring.
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)
Each minute that wee loſe thus, I confeſſe, Deſerves a cenſure on us, more or leſſe; But that a ſadder chance hath given allay, Both to the Mirth, and Muſicke of this day. Our faireſt Shepherdeſſe wee had of late, Here upon Trent, is drown'd; for whom her mate Young Aeglamour, a Swaine, who beſt could tread Our countrey dances, and our games did lead, Lives like the melancholy Turtle, drown'd Deeper in woe, then ſhe in water: crown'd With Yewgh and Cypreſſa, and will ſcarce admit The Phyſick of our preſence to his fit. Sometimes he ſits, and thinkes all day, then walkes, Then thinkes againe; and ſighes, weeps, laughs, and talkes, And, 'twixt his pleaſing frenzie, and ſad griefe, Is ſo diſtracted; as no ſought reliefe, By all our ſtudies can procure his peace. The paſſion finds in him that large increaſe, As wee doubt hourely wee ſhall loſe him too. You ſhould not croſſe him then what ere you doe: For Phant'ſie ſtop'd, will ſoone take fire, and burne Into an anger, or to a Phrenſie turne. Nay, ſo wee are advis'd by Alhen here, A good ſage Shepherd, who all-tho' he weare An old worne hat and cloake, can tell us more Then all the forward Fry, that boaſt their Lore. See, yonder comes the brother of the Maid, Young Karolin! how curious, and afraid Hee is at once! willing to find him out, And loath to'offend him. Sure hee's here about. See where hee ſits. It will be rare, rare, rare! An exquiſite revenge: but peace, no words! Not for the faireſt fleece of all the Flock; If it be knowne afore, 'tis all worth nothing! Ile carve it on the trees, and in the turfe, On every greene ſworth, and in every path, Juſt to the Margin of the cruell Trent; There will I knock the ſtory in the ground, In ſmooth great peble, and moſſe fill it round, Till the whole Countrey read how ſhe was drown'd, And with the plenty of ſalt teares thereſhed, Quite alter the complexion of the Spring. Or I will get ſome old, old Grandam, thither, Whoſe rigid foot but dip'd into the water, Shall ſtrike that ſharpe and ſuddaine cold, throughout, As it ſhall looſe all vertue; and thoſe Nimphs, Thoſe treacherous Nimphs pull'd in Earine; Shall ſtand curl'd up, like Images of Ice; And never thaw! marke, never! a ſharpe Juſtice: Or ſtay, a better! when the yeares at hotteſt, And that the Dog-ſtarre fomes, and the ſtreames boiles, And curles, and workes, and ſwells ready to ſparkle: To fling a fellow with a Fever in, To ſet it all on fire, till it burne, Blew as Scamander, 'fore the walls of Troy; When Vulcan leap'd in to him, to conſume him. A deepe hurt Phant'ſie. Doe you not approve it? Yes gentle Aeglamour, wee all approve, And come to gratulate your juſt revenge: Which ſince it is ſo perfect, we now hope, You'l leave all care thereof, and mixe with us, In all the profer'd ſolace of the Spring.