The Sad Shepherd, or A Tale of Robin Hood · chunk 11 of 19
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1637 [c.1612-1637] (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T48 Addressing a lady: love, desire and inti · 480 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T48: lady, love, heart, fair, eyes, la, lord, tears, fie, face.
Why, Mother, I have heard ye bid to give; And often, as the Cause calls. I know well, It is a witty part, sumtimes, to give. But what? to whame? no monsters! nor to maidens! He suld present them with mare pleasand things, Things natural, and what all women covet To see: the common Parent of us all! Which Maids will twire at, 'tween their fingers, thus! With which his Sire got him! he's get another! And so beget posterity upon her! This he should do! (false Gelden) gang thy gait And du thy turns, betimes: or, I'is gar take Thy new breikes fra' thee, and thy duib let tu. The Talleur, and the souter sall undu ' All they ha' made; except thou manlier woe! Gud Mother, give you chide him, he'll du wars. Hung him: I geif him to the Devil's eirs. But, ye my Douce, I charge ye, show your cell, Tu all the Sheep'ards, baudly: gaing amang'hem. Be mickell i' their eye, frequent, and fuge and. And, give they ask ye of Earine, Or of these claithes; say, that I give him ye, And say no more. I ha' that wark in hand, That web upo' the Luime, sall gar 'em think By than, they feelin their own frights, and fears, I'is pu ' the world, or Nature, 'bout their ears. But, hear ye Douce, because, ye may meet me In money shapes tu day; where ere you spy This browdred belt, with Characters, 'tis I. A Gypsan Lady, and a right Beldame, Wrought it by Moonshine for me, and Starlight, Upo' your Granam's grave, that very night We earthed her, in the shades; when our Dame Hecat, Made it her gaing-night, over the Kirk-yard, Withal the bark and parish tykes set at her, While I sat whyrland, of my brazen spindle: At every twisted third my rock let fly Unto the sew'ster, who did sit me nigh, Under the towne-turne-pike; which ran each spell She stitched in the work, and knit it well. See, ye take tent to this, and ken' your Mother. How do you sweet Amie? yet? She cannot tell, If she could sleep, she says, she should do well. She feels a hurt, but where, she cannot show Any lest sign, that she is hurt or no. Her pain's not doubtful to her; but the seat Of her pain is. Her thoughts too work, and beaten, Oppressed with Cares: but why, she cannot say. All matter of her care is quite away. Hath any Vermin broke into your Fold? Or any rot seized on your flock? or cold? Or hath your feighting Ram, burst his hard horn? Or any Ewe her fleece? or bag hath torn, My gentle Amie? Am. Marian, none of these. Ha' you been stung by Wasps, or angry Bees? Or razed with some rude bramble, or rough briar?
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)
Why, Mother, I have heard yee bid to give; And often, as the Cauſe calls. I know well, It is a wittie part, ſum-times, to give. But what? to whame? no monſters! nor to maidens! Hee ſuld preſent them with mare pleaſand things, Things naturall, and what all woemen covet To ſee: the common Parent of us all! Which Maids will twire at, 'tween their fingers, thus! With which his Sire gat him! Hee's gett another! And ſo beget poſteritie upon her! This he ſhould do! (falſe Gelden) gang thy gait And du thy turnes, betimes: or, I'is gar take Thy new breikes fra' thee, and thy duib let tu. The Talleur, and the Sowter ſall undu' All they ha' made; except thou manlier woo! Gud Mother, gif yow chide him, hee'll du wairs. Hang him: I geif him to the Devills eirs. But, yee my Douce, I charge yee, ſhew your ſell, Tu all the Sheep'ards, baudly: gaing amang'hem. Be mickell i' their eye, frequent, and fuge and. And, gif they aske yee of Earine, Or of theſe claithes; ſay, that I ga' hem yee, And ſay no more. I ha' that wark in hand, That web upo' the Luime, ſall gar 'hem thinke By then, they feelin their owne frights, and feares, I'is pu' the world, or Nature, bout their eares. But, heare yee Douce, bycauſe, yee may meet mee In mony ſhapes tu day; where ere you ſpie This browdred belt, with Characters, tis I. A Gypſan Ladie, and a right Beldame, Wrought it by Moone-ſhine for mee, and Star-light, Upo' your Granams grave, that verie night Wee earth'd her, in the ſhades; when our Dame Hecat, Made it her gaing-night, over the Kirk-yard, Withall the barke and pariſh tykes ſet at her, While I ſate whyrland, of my braſen ſpindle: At every twiſted thrid my rock let flie Unto the ſew'ſter, who did ſit me nigh, Under the towne-turne-pike; which ran each ſpell She ſtitched in the worke, and knit it well. See, yee take tent to this, and ken 'your Mother. How do you ſweet Amie? yet? Shee cannot tell, If ſhee could ſleepe, ſhee ſaies, ſhee ſhould do well. Shee feeles a hurt, but where, ſhee cannot ſhow Any leaſt ſigne, that ſhee is hurt or no. Her paine's not doubtfull to her; but the ſeat Of her paine is. Her thoughts too work, and beat, Oppreſt with Cares: but why, ſhee cannot ſay. All matter of her care is quite away. Hath any Vermin broke into your Fold? Or any rott ſeiz'd on your flock? or cold? Or hath your feighting Ram, burſt his hard horne? Or any Ewe her fleece? or bag hath torne, My gentle Amie? Am. Marian, none of theſe. Ha' you been ſtung by Waſpes, or angry Bees? Or raz'd with ſome rude bramble, or rough briar?