The Sad Shepherd, or A Tale of Robin Hood · chunk 8 of 19
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1637 [c.1612-1637] (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 482 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
But at his fall there happed a chance. Worth mark? I! what was that sweet Marian You'll not hear? I love these interruptions in a Story; They make it sweeter. You do know, as soon As the Assay is taken. On my Marian. I did but take the Assay. You stop one's mouth, And yet you bid 'em speak— when the Arbours made. Pulled down, and paunch turned out. He that undoes him; Doth cleave the brisket-bone, upon the spoon Of which, a little gristle grows, you call it— the Ravens-bone. Now, o'er head sat a Raven! On a sear bough! a grown great Bird! and Hoarse! Who, all the while the Deer was breaking up, So crooked and cried for't, as all the huntsmen, (Especially old Scathlock) thought it ominous! Swore it was Mother Maudlin; whom he met, At the Day-dawne; just as he roused the Deer, Out of his Laire: but we made shifted to run him Of his four legs, and sunk him e'er we left. Is the Deer come? He lies within o the dresser! Will you go see him Mellifleur? I attend you. Come Amie, you'll go with us? I am not well. she's sick o' the young Shep'ard that be kissed her. Friend, cheer your friends up, we will eat him merrily, Saw you the Raven, Friend? I, qu'ha suld let me? I suld be afraid o you sir suld I? Huntsman! A Dram more of Civility would not hurt you? Nay, you must give them all their rudenesses; They are not else themselves, without their language. And what do you think of her? As of a Witch. They call her a Wise-woman, but I think her An arrant Witch. And wherefore think you so? Because, I saw her since, broiling the bone Was cast her at the Quarry. Where saw you her? I' the Chimley nuik, within: she's there, now. Your Hunt holds in his tale, still; and tells more! My Hunt? what tale? How! cloudy, Marian! What look is this? A fit one, Sir, for you. Hand of rude Ranger! Sirrah, get you in And bear the Venison hence. It is too good For these course rustic mouths that cannot open, Or spend a thank for't. A starved Muttons carcase Would better fit their palates. See it carried To Mother Maudlin's, whom you call the Witch, Sir. Tell her I sent it to make merry with, she'll turn us thanks at lest! why standest thou, Groom? I wonder he can move! that he's not fixed! If that his feeling be the same with mine! I dare not trust the faith of mine own senses. I fear mine eyes, and ears! this is not Marian! Nor am I Robin-hood! I pray you ask her! Ask her good Shep'ards! ask her all for me; Or rather ask yourselves, if she be she; Or I, be I
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)
But at his fall there hap't a chance. Worth marke? I! what was that ſweet Marian You'll not heare? I love theſe interruptions in a Story; They make it ſweeter. You doe know, as ſoone As the Aſſay is taken. On my Marian. I did but take the Aſſay. You ſtop ones mouth, And yet you bid 'hem ſpeake—when the Arbors made. Puld downe, and paunch turn'd out. Hee that undoes him; Doth cleave the brisket-bone, upon the ſpoone Of which, a little griſtle growes, you call it— the Ravenſ-bone. Now, ore head ſate a Raven! On a ſere bough! a growne great Bird! and Hoarſe! Who, all the while the Deere was breaking up, So crok'd and cry'd for't, as all the huntſ-men, (Eſpecially old Scathlocke) thought it ominous! Swore it was Mother Maudlin; whom he met, At the Day-dawne; juſt as hee rows'd the Deere, Out of his Laire: but wee made ſhift to run him Off his foure leggs, and ſunke him e're wee left. Is the Deere come? Hee lies within ô the dreſſer! Will you goe ſee him Mellifleur? I attend you. Come Amie, you'll goe with us? I am not well. Shee's ſick o' the yong Shep'ard that be kiſt her. Friend, cheare your friends up, wee will eate him merrily, Saw you the Raven, Friend? I, qu'ha ſuld let me? I ſuld be afraid ô you ſir ſuld I? Huntſ-man! A Dram more of Civilitie would not hurt you? Nay, you muſt give them all their rudeneſſes; They are not elſe themſelves, without their language. And what do you thinke of her? As of a Witch. They call her a Wiſe-woman, but I thinke her An arrant Witch. And wherefore think you ſo? Becauſe, I ſaw her ſince, broiling the bone Was caſt her at the Quarrie. Where ſaw you her? I' the Chimley nuik, within: ſhee's there, now. Your Hunt holds in his tale, ſtill; and tells more! My Hunt? what tale? How! cloudie, Marian! What looke is this? A fit one, Sir, for you. Hand off rude Ranger! Sirrah, get you in And beare the Veniſon hence. It is too good For theſe courſe ruſtick mouthes that cannot open, Or ſpend a thanke for't. A ſtarv'd Muttons carkaſſe Would better fit their palates. See it carried To Mother Maudlins, whom you call the Witch, Sir. Tell her I ſent it to make merrie with, Shee'll turne us thanks at leaſt! why ſtand'ſt thou, Groome? I wonder he can move! that hee's not fix'd! If that his feeling be the ſame with mine! I dare not truſt the faith of mine owne ſenſes. I feare mine eyes, and eares! this is not Marian! Nor am I Robin-hood! I pray you aske her! Aske her good Shep'ards! aske her all for me; Or rather aske yourſelves, if ſhee be ſhee; Or I, be I.